


Responsibilities

by AlphaFlyer



Series: Tom Paris Post-Endgame [5]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Paris experiences the responsibilities of fatherhood and command onboard the Enterprise.  Can the Prime Directive survive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE  
> This story is part of my post-Endgame series (fourth, although written second). You might wish to read the other stories, especially "Choices", first if you are wondering how Tom, B'Elanna, Harry and Libby ended up on the Enterprise under Captain Will Riker; otherwise this one stands pretty well on its own.
> 
> The question I'm asking myself here is how, based on what we know of Tom Paris' character and that occasionally inconvenient personal code of honour of his, what we might expect him to do if he had another run-in with the Prime Directive -- given how the last one turned out?
> 
> Speaking of which – in my view, a law that gets ignored, sidestepped and broken so often, by people we love and respect and in circumstances where we inevitably stand up and applaud, is probably in need of a rethink. The politics of non-interference may have looked good in the 1960s, but how could a Federation that calls Starfleet a "humanitarian armada" (quoting Janeway), possibly sustain the attitude that it is perfectly civilized to sit idly by and watch the extermination of a species just because they haven't developed warp drive?
> 
> In keeping with ST tradition there's a touch of actual science (thanks, Chris), but the story takes over pretty quickly. After all, I'm a fanfic writer, not an astrophysicist! As for the legal bits, any Trek episode with a bit of courtroom drama has the judge asking a lot of questions, as in the civil law system. If that's where they're headed in the 24th century, fine with me. I've added a Military Commission because the gravity of the alleged offence calls for a jury.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The characters (except for some whose names you won't recognize unless you've also read "Choices") and universe aren't mine, only their current thoughts and predicaments are. I write for fun, not profit.

For Glyn

" _Captain William Thomas Riker, you are accused of knowingly and willfully violating the Prime Directive, a court martial offence under the Starfleet Code of Discipline. If convicted, you are liable to being relieved of command of the USS Enterprise and to reduction in rank to Commander._

" _Commander Thomas Eugene Paris, you are accused of knowingly and willfully violating the Prime Directive, a court martial offence under the Starfleet Code of Discipline. As you have been found guilty of breaches of the Starfleet Code of Discipline on two prior occasions, if convicted, you are liable to reduction in rank to Lieutenant Commander and dishonourable discharge from Starfleet._

" _Based on agreement with defense counsel, there will be no plea entered at this time. You will, however, be given the opportunity to make a statement if you so wish."_

_The two accused stood at attention, tall and straight both, two pairs of cool, focused blue eyes taking the measure of the investigating judge and the members of the Military Commission appointed to determine their fate._

_The dark-haired Captain was by far the more massive figure, a broad-shouldered former athlete whose body had begun, however reluctantly, to cede hard tone to the more sedate pace of middle-age and the fact that he was now, more often than not, telling rather than doing. Will Riker's full beard, greying a bit around the edges, gave him a slightly forbidding aspect and only served to enhance the overall impression of a man used to filling a room with his presence. Riker took a deep breath, tightened his jaw and squared his shoulders against the curious stares from an audience that filled the courtroom to capacity._

_The face of the lanky, fair-haired Commander standing beside his Captain was closed to scrutiny. Tom Paris had indeed been here before and was not giving anything away – not to the judge, not to the jury, not to the spectators, and especially not to the media. Only his eyes showed any movement, scanning the room under pale lashes, scrutinizing each face. A small, sardonic smile began to curl one corner of his mouth at some unknown memory but was quickly suppressed._

_The investigating military judge chosen by the admiralty to preside over the proceedings had been brought back from retirement for the occasion. Presumably this had been done because he was one of the few admirals without any direct personal connection to either of the accused, both of whom were well-known among senior Starfleet ranks. Thaddeus McPhee was a frail man, shrunken and stooped, whose slightly clouded grey eyes betrayed either advancing old age or a declining intellect. Neither possibility was a comfort to the accused, and the more astute of the journalists present were already preparing editorials on the merits of his appointment._

_The combination of the nature of the charges and the identity of the accused meant that public attention to the case went far beyond Starfleet, and in fact was close to hysteria. Direct newsvid access had to be limited to a small number of select and rotating providers, with live feeds piped into virtually all channels across the sector. Here, after all, stood the man who had led the defense of Earth against the Borg against his own tragically assimilated former Captain; beside him was Voyager's helmsman, the highly decorated reformed Bad Boy of Starfleet, 'Captain Proton' to a generation of young holovid gamers. Mic'ed lenses of a dozen holovid cameras stared down at the accused from various vantage points like a forest of unblinking alien eyes on metallic stalks._

_The Starfleet public relations machine was in full gear. Eric Henderson, prince of communications and widely regarded as Admiral Nacheyev's anointed mouthpiece, was personally in attendance to ensure everyone connected with the Fleet was on message: " This is a matter for the law. The case is before the Court and it is inappropriate to speculate on an outcome. Starfleet is not in a position to comment." Like a mantra, he repeated his three talking points, somehow managing to sound engaged, innovative and profound each time he did._

_A small number of family members and other supporters, carefully vetted due to the sensitivity of the case and the scarcity of public seating, could be seen in the front row. The Captain had issued a direct order that none of the Enterprise's crew were to attend the hearing, lest they implicate themselves in any way in a responsibility the two commanding officers meant to shoulder on their own. Depositions had been given, and there would be no additional evidence other than the ship's logs._

_Not even the accused's wives, both senior officers on the Enterprise, were present, in fulfillment of their commanders' wishes. But nothing could keep retired Admiral Owen Paris away; his hands were clenched as firmly as his jaw as he was doing his best to ignore the cameras that kept seeking out his face. His views on the Prime Directive were well-known in Starfleet circles; the fact that he was here, presumably in support of his son, invited endless speculation._

_Both accused glanced over at their defense counsel. Taking advantage of his status as a reserve officer, Stan McFaddyen had dusted off his old Starfleet uniform for the occasion – figuratively rather than literally, since uniform standards had changed a few times since he had last donned one, as had his body shape. The fact that he had never moved past the rank of lieutenant did not bother him in the slightest. His clients' case would have nothing to do with the number of pips that accented its delivery._

_McFaddyen knew as surely as he did his own name that the die for the decision over which McPhee would be presiding had been cast long ago, and not in this room. The jury of Military Commissioners, however much they might think of themselves as independent, impartial and open-minded, would reach an outcome McFaddyen already knew to be inevitable; McPhee's presence on the bench ensured as much._

_But still, McFaddyen had a case to make. He sent a small prayer up to Sir Thomas More, patron saint of lawyers, that his clients – both deeply passionate men, not afraid to speak their minds and not of a mind to suffer fools gladly – would not get too much in the way. McFaddyen adjusted his glasses and rose to address the court._

" _My clients do not wish to make a statement at this time, Your Honour. We will let the facts and the evidence speak for themselves and in the end, the members of this Honourable Jury will find my clients not guilty of violating any laws or regulations of Starfleet or the United Federation of Planets._

" _I am confident that the members of this jury will come to this inevitable conclusion for one reason, and one reason only: In light of the fundamental rights and freedoms inherent to all sentient species, and in particular the right to life, the Prime Directive as it is currently understood and applied by Starfleet cannot stand._

" _The principle you will be applying to this case is one that is hundreds of years old: 'Leges sine moribus vanae'. Since the universal translator does not speak Latin, a dead language, allow me to translate:_

' _Laws without morals are empty."_

_....._

_  
_

Captain William T. Riker let his eyes wander around his briefing room, quietly and surreptitiously appraising his senior staff. While he still at times deeply missed the familiar faces with whom he had spent so many years aboard the Enterprise, he liked what he saw. Even if at this precise point his wife and counselor was doing her best – and failing spectacularly - to keep a straight face at the rapid-fire exchange of wisecracks flying between his Chief of Operations, Lieutenant Harry Kim, and his First Officer, Thomas Eugene Paris.

After a short-lived initial skepticism, Riker had learned to appreciate the light touch his Number One had brought to his office. Clearly, the rest of the crew did. Tom Paris had been on the Enterprise for little more than a year now, but in that brief time he had engendered a fierce loyalty in his subordinates that it had taken Riker, as he somewhat enviously admitted to himself, years to achieve in the same position.

How Paris had done it, Riker had no idea. Sure, his unorthodox thinking in the Neutral Zone had quite possibly saved the ship, and the Andorian mission ... gods, the memory of that one still made Riker a little queasy. But apart from having proven his mettle as a tactician, Paris seemed to have won over the crew by sheer force of personality, memorizing the names, positions and major personality quirks of all 1,246 crewmembers inside a month. A friendly word or an encouraging challenge here, a concerned and fair intervention there; consummate professionalism balanced by a wicked sense of humor, and complete lack of self-consciousness at being seen chasing a squealing toddler in circles around the warp core.

And of course, Paris provided the toughest piloting training in Starfleet, available – time permitting - to any and all who sought to expand their skills, while his spectacular series of run-ins with various legal systems had lent him a mystique that for some reason fascinated the women on the ship even more than the men. The French bar programme he had made publicly accessible in one of the holodecks probably hadn't hurt either… Why and how that eclectic package would make for such an effective commanding officer was an enigma, all things considered, but one Riker had long ago stopped trying to puzzle out.

Harry Kim, trying desperately to suppress a grin at one of Paris' comments, had steadily grown in confidence over the last year. Fatherhood had grounded him, and Riker was beginning to think about a recommendation to make him a Lieutenant Commander. Kim had only spent a year as a full Lieutenant, but after seven years as an Ensign, who would begrudge him a bit of fast-tracking now?

The Chief Engineer, Lt Commander B'Elanna Torres, was ostentatiously ignoring the banter between her husband and Harry Kim, instead reviewing engine specs on her PADD with determined concentration. Riker was still on occasion congratulating himself for being the one who had snapped her up when she was ready to go back into space. Her famous Klingon temper was readily channeled into brilliant feats of engineering that he could only shake his head at. Upon arrival she had spent three days crawling through every Jeffries tube on the Enterprise, touched and examined every EPS manifold, until she was satisfied that she knew "her" ship. A year on, she played its insides like a virtuoso would his instrument.

The Chief Tactical and Security officer, Lt Commander Jorak, remained his usual Vulcan self – unreadable, but totally aware of and mentally recording every nuance in the room; there was a good reason so many Vulcans chose tactical as their preferred assignment in Starfleet. Jorak had been on the Enterprise longer than her Captain, having served under the wildly unpopular and incompetent woman referred to among Fleeters only as "Picard's successor", as if using her name might somehow legitimize her short and disastrous tenure. Jorak had of course betrayed no indication that he was relieved when Riker took command, but he had allowed that he 'welcomed' the ability to alter his tactical protocols at his own initiative, without seeking his Captain's consent each time.

Riker's eyes lingered for a moment on the empty seat of the Chief Medical Officer. He hadn't been able to bring himself to allow Dr. Crusher's temporary replacement a seat at the "big table"; luckily he didn't have to, given that Dr. Jeremy Fincher would only be on board for a couple more weeks. If that made the Captain a stickler for protocol – well, so be it. The man was epically underwhelming, and the last thing Riker needed was the distraction of having him try and insert his pompous, ill-informed views into discussions that did not concern him.

The door swished open and Lieutenant Marc O'Reilly plonked himself down in his chair, his breath a little ragged. Riker tried to look stern but failed; Paris smirked knowingly and not unsympathetically. What was it about pilots that they always ran late when it came to administrative tasks? Just couldn't let go of the conn?

With everyone who was supposed to be there accounted for now, the Captain called the meeting to order. Everyone promptly sat back in their chairs and assumed their professional personas. Routine reports were quickly and efficiently dispatched with. Engines were at full capacity, a small glitch in Transporter Room One had been fixed, and crew evaluation reports – everyone sighed heavily at that – were on track to being completed on time. Probably.

Time to get down to brass tacks.

"Commander Cran, if you please." Riker's gesture invited the chief science officer to begin the centrepiece of the morning's briefing. She was not a regular participant in the morning meetings and had spent the previous ten minutes tuning out the discussion in order to focus on her presentation, oblivious to the amused glances her lack of attention was generating.

Petra Cran nodded her thanks to the Captain, and launched into her report by punching a series of instructions into her PADD. The briefing room screen lit up to display a vast nebula, shaded in rich but translucent tones of red, blue and purple, with innumerable points of light of varying degrees of brightness dotting the wispy strands of stellar matter. The red shades, she explained, were images of Hydrogen Alpha lines, while the white and blue clouds within the nebula were particles of unknown nature, reflecting the light of whatever stellar objects were close to them.

"The Trifid Nebula," she announced. "Known also as Messier Object 20, or NGC 6514, one of the galaxy's main stellar nurseries. 5,500 light years from Sector 001. Approximately 180 emerging stars had been catalogued by the mid-to-late 20th century, with the relatively limited telemetry – however advanced for its time – provided by the Hubble telescope. Telemetry has much improved of course, and as you know, our new astrometric sensors greatly compress the differential between the time between the emission of light at the source and the time it takes to travel to our sector. But a time lag still exists, of approximately sixty years."

Tom and Harry exchanged weary glances at the explanation, but Deanna, without their background in astrophysics, was listening intently. Cran continued without seeming awareness of the differing levels of interest her monologue was generating.

"But the molecular dispersion patterns, which cause the three dark cloud strands that give the Trifid its name, continue to deflect most sensing probes. Basically, we can't see behind those dark strands. They act, to all intents and purposes, like a drawn curtain."

Cran took a break for effect; she did not get the floor at a senior staff briefing very often, and was intent on making the most of the opportunity. "Our most recent readings, such as they are, have shown over three hundred new stellar or star-like objects to have been added since Messier catalogued the Trifid, essentially sometime in the last four-to-five hundred years, with two dozen new ones added just in the last two years." Tom whistled at that, his interest caught now.

As Cran spoke, a series of images flashed on the screen in succession – the same scene repeatedly superimposed upon itself, creating a moving image that showed a rapid and steady increase in the number of those points of light.

"Given the rate at which new stellar objects are formed under ordinary circumstances, we should have seen at best one or two new ones since the original Hubble telemetry. Starfleet and amateur observers have failed to provide a scientific explanation or theory for this abnormal rate of activity, again, mostly because even our most sophisticated remote sensing methods can't penetrate much of the nebula. Basically, we lack the data to make even a guess."

She paused again, speeding up the image display. "What is most intriguing though is the fact that some of these objects appear to be moving, or vanish almost as soon as they are catalogued. This close to the galactic centre, they should be moving in the same pattern and with the same relative speed as the Sagittarian arm, that is, they should essentially be orbiting the singularity at the centre of our galaxy. They are not. Based on the most recent observations, the newer objects have moved in random patterns, even flashing on and flashing off. Almost as if they are moving at their own volition. And because of the time delay, for all we know today none of them still are where they were first observed. In other words, we have really no idea what the stellar environment in the Trifid looks like today."

Deanna Troi drew a sharp breath at that comment. As the ship's counselor she had not been briefed in detail on the scientific aspects of this latest mission, and frankly didn't really want to know most of them. Her focus was the ship's crew. That said, however, her past experiences with stellar phenomena that had turned out to be anything but a mere quirk of physics caused her to be on instant alert – warranted or not – whenever she heard statements like the one Cran had just made.

The science officer continued. "With the recent discovery of the Sagittarius wormhole we can close in on the Trifid nebula physically for the first time. No one has been this close to the centre of the galaxy before, and we don't know who or what else might already be here. The Enterprise will be the first Federation ship to fly into the Trifid. And as you know, our estimate of the stability of the wormhole means that our window for observation and analysis is quite limited."

Riker nodded to himself at that. The Enterprise had taken a calculated risk in coming through the wormhole, one that had been debated at length in the highest echelons of the admiralty. The possibility that it would take the ship up to five years to return to Earth if the wormhole closed unexpectedly early had led to the decision to cut its crew complement by over 200 personnel, with the increased storage capacity devoted to supplies and facilities for an extended journey home.

Would it have been better to send a smaller, specialized science vessel? Probably, but given the fact that this would be the Federation's first foray into this sector, a show of its might was considered to be worth the risk just in case there was sentient life to be found here. The presence of families was of course a decidedly mixed blessing, but on balance the ability to have their children onboard had reconciled crewmembers more readily to the prospect of a long journey home.

The possibility of an involuntarily extended mission also explained the number of former members of USS Voyager recruited to augment the Enterprise's crew. If anyone knew of the challenges of an extended deep space mission, they did – and a surprising number had agreed to participate.

The experience of the "Voyagers" had already proven invaluable. Riker smiled a little grimly as he recalled the ship's wild ride through the wormhole, one of the moments where he had insisted that Tom Paris take the helm. Riker saw no point in wasting the talents of the best pilot onboard, even if he did happen to have a day job as his First Officer. And since this particular XO had unparalleled experience flying a starship through narrow conduits and unpredictable astral energy fluctuations, the helm was declared his for the day.

Tom of course hadn't minded one little bit, in fact had taken to the task with undisguised glee, but he had also insisted that Chief Conn officer Marc O'Reilly sit by his side to serve as back-up. A completely unnecessary precaution, Riker knew, but the gesture had reassured O'Reilly that his position had not been usurped. Plus, he had probably learned something into the bargain. The Paris approach to staff management; Riker approved.

Cran's summary complete, she sat down, ready for questions; only a few came. All senior staff had spent considerable time briefing themselves and her report had been intended as a reminder only. The Captain picked up the thread of her presentation.

"Our mission, as you know, is to explore and analyze the nebula, the emerging stars and any planetary systems or rogue stellar bodies. We want to determine why emergence has accelerated to such an extent, and whether it has continued in the years since the light our scientists have been studying left the nebula. Most importantly, given the rather explosive increase in potential sources of interstellar matter and radiation, we want to learn whether these phenomena are something that could potentially reach, or have an impact on, populated areas within the boundaries of the Federation."

"We'll be arriving at the outer edges of the Trifid nebula in about three days, at which time we can expect turbulence, unknown radiation emissions and possible spatial object interference. Commander Paris and Mr. Jorak will be starting to run a series of flight drills and tactical simulations for the crew starting at 0900.

"Lieutenant Commander Torres, and Lieutenant Kim, your teams will be running complete system diagnostics. We don't know what to expect out there, so we want to make sure our instruments are in good shape to meet the unexpected, including possible first contact situations on top of whatever natural phenomena we may find. Then we'll do it all over again tomorrow, and again the next day. We'll note any divergences as we approach the nebula's molecular dispersion field. Counselor Troi will ensure with the teaching staff that the children's safe zone is up and running before we enter areas with likely increased radiation levels. I expect reports from all department heads by 18:00 each day, Mr. Paris. Dismissed."

Riker stayed seated as his senior staff filed out of the briefing room. Only Counselor Troi remained behind. Will looked at his wife, his eyes asking the question she expected.

"Cran is apprehensive, a bit insecure. It's her first major challenge. O'Reilly, too; he's nervous about flying in unknown conditions, and I sense that he's pretty glad to have Tom Paris as a safety net. Jorak, as usual, is a Vulcan blank slate but seems keen and alert. As for Kim, Torres and Paris …" she smiled, in slight disbelief. "They're ... the best I can describe it is, they're excited. Exhilarated, even. Almost like they're coming home to something they've been missing."

"Home to the unknown?"

"Yes. Yes, that's right. Unknown challenges, unknown conditions. Unknown dangers even. Unknown everything. They seem to … thrive on the idea."

Riker smiled broadly. "Are you telling me three of my senior bridge officers are mentally ill, oh wife of mine?" Deanna laughed.

"No more than you are, Will, or me for that matter. They're Starfleet officers."

 


	2. Challenges

" _So you claim that you had really no idea what you were getting into when you set out?"_

" _You may recall Starfleet's recruitment line, Sir: 'To boldly go where no one has gone before'. And that's exactly what we did. So no, no one had been there before, and no, we didn't know what we were getting into. It's called 'exploration.' Seeking out the unknown."_

" _Mr. McFaddyen, kindly advise your client to refrain from patronizing the bench."_

" _A moment please, your honour. Tom …"_

" _Yeah, yeah, I know. Stop being a smart-ass, Paris. But whatever you can do to stop HIM from being – well – an ass …"_

" _Shh. Don't dig yourself in deeper. Let me handle this."_

" _Your honour, my client apologizes. However, it must also be clearly understood, and perhaps I have not made this clear, my own failing obviously, that the Enterprise's mission to the Trifid was based on very little first-hand information. The ship was the first Federation vessel in this area of space, and no one onboard or back in San Francisco had any idea what to expect. I am prepared to submit evidence from Starfleet Headquarters on this point, if required, although with all due respect, I do question the relevance that any advance knowledge would have had for the issues before you in these proceedings."_

" _Thank you counsel, I take your point. The jury may disregard any suggestion that the defendants and their crew should have known more about what to expect in the nebula. Session is in recess for ten minutes."_

" _The 'smartass' evidently made his point. Good work, Commander."_

" _Captain, please don't encourage him. We need to take the high road here. Tom …"_

" _Yes, I know, I know. Stick to the script. It's just so damned hard when some geriatric moron who's pushed paper all his life as - what, was he, the Head of Non-Military Supplies, in charge of buying furniture and replicators? – who's never been out there and doesn't know the basics, is put in charge of ruling on why the basics no longer work."_

" _It's not the judge we need to convince, Tom. It's the jury. And it's not the judge we want to make them feel sorry for, nor is it you they should be getting annoyed with."_

.....

 

Tom Paris entered his family's quarters at lunchtime, ready to have his knees assaulted by the enthusiastic hug of a small but energetic toddler. Picking up Miral and tossing her in the air until she squealed with glee, he looked around the place he had dubbed "the Palace" immediately upon entering it for the first time.

The First Officer's quarters (family configuration) were substantial. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms – one with an actual tub - a large dining area suitable for formal entertaining, an enormous living room with a corner office area, a kitchenette with a replicator and a counter with an antique-looking toaster; and two large observation windows, through which the streaky lights of warp flight were currently visible. B'Elanna was busy at one of the computer consoles finishing up a report on the latest systems diagnostics. She tossed a casual "hey" over her shoulder as her husband and XO came over to kiss her on the head.

"How's engineering today?" Tom asked, and kicked a few colourful toys into a corner before someone would break their ankle tripping over them. "Personal or professional question?" "Both. Either."

"Warp core is at 94 percent efficiency, we fixed a minor fluctuation in the EPS conduit between Decks 14 and 15 that may or may not have caused the sonic showers in three different quarters to play Bolian cacophonies at odd hours, and Vorik may finally be getting over the Vulcan measles. Bad news is, now Kal and Talas have it. Otherwise, we're as ready as we can be."

Tom chuckled appreciatively at her recitation of the minor ailments affecting vessel and crew. The Enterprise was a vastly different ship from Voyager; nearly ten times the size, with normally eight times his old ship's crew complement – reduced for this mission - and with facilities that they could only have dreamt of in the Delta Quadrant: Functioning replicators and unlimited water for showers; no rations. Food you could name, recognize and digest. Six holodecks, although time slots were just as hard to book as they were on Voyager. A school and a nursery, complete with teachers and more than one kid. But the best thing – certainly as far as B'Elanna was concerned – were engines and systems that didn't require maintenance 24/7 just because they hadn't seen a dry dock in six years, or that were held together with alien string and Delta Quadrant bubblegum.

The major drawback in Tom's view was the – hopefully temporary - absence of a trustworthy Chief Medical Officer. "I told our so-called medical expert that Vulcan measles can spread to Bajorans under certain circumstances." No need to explain who the 'so-called expert' was.

"Yeah, well, _Doctor_ Fincher is still in denial about the whole thing, according to Vorik. Maybe you could have a look at the records, Tom, and figure out how the contagion happened?"

"I bet he'd just love that," Tom snorted contemptuously. Dr. Crusher's sudden appointment as Head of Starfleet Medical had taken the Captain and crew by surprise, although no one begrudged her the speed with which she had accepted the offer, especially given the impending mission to the Trifid. It was, after all, a tremendous opportunity - the apex of a medical career with Starfleet, plus it came with the rank of Captain.

Unfortunately, Dr. Jeremiah Fincher, the short-term locum the Enterprise had been assigned and whom they had picked up at Deep Space Six, was about as far removed from the apex of his profession as one could be and still retain a licence to practice medicine in Starfleet. Clearly, not everyone could graduate at the top of his class – Lord knew he himself was a prime example - but Tom had quickly realized just why the man was so readily available for short-term assignments: A deadly combination of arrogance, professional incompetence and unwillingness to consider other perspectives. Although Tom was usually prepared to give someone the benefit of his doubt, that only went up to a point, and he was rapidly reaching his. At least they would only have to put up with Fincher for another couple of weeks; the Captain was reviewing files of potential candidates already and would contact them the minute the Enterprise was back in Federation space.

Fincher, despite his own shortcomings as a physician, in turn had made no secret of his belief that a First Officer who claimed to have a medical background had to be suffering from delusions of grandeur. Tom for his part had resolved not to let anyone he cared about be treated by someone he considered to be mere steps removed from a snake oil salesman, and had quietly allowed the senior officers to spread the word that he was available for "second opinions" after hours.

It was Tom who had diagnosed and treated poor, embarrassed Vorik's Vulcan childhood illness, after Fincher had sent him to his quarters with an anti-itch hypospray and a cream for eczema. It had been Fincher who had lifted the Lieutenant's quarantine, recommended by Tom, on the basis that the disease was not contagious. So much for that notion now, Tom thought vindictively.

"Maybe I'll transmit the files to the Doc, and he can have a look and figure out why it spread this time. There could be all sorts of environmental factors in play, but I don't have the time to do the research. Too busy with the Trifid project, I'm afraid." Again, no need to explain who 'the Doc' was to his wife.

Tom deposited Miral on her high chair at the dining table, and went over to the replicator. "Pizza, plain, warm, child-size. Pizza, pepperoni, hot, adult size." Miral squealed with delight when he put her plate in front of her. "Here you go, munchkin. Our favourite." He whispered conspiratorially. "Yummy, isn't it. Mommy just doesn't get it."

"I have a better idea," B'Elanna continued her earlier train of thought as she watched, with a fond headshake, her husband and daughter dig into their respective pizzas. It was amazing what things seemed to be passed on through the human DNA. She replicated a chicken salad for herself.

"I can't afford to have all the Bajorans and Vulcans in my department out with some idiotic childhood disease just now. Who knows what the nebula's radiation and stray particles will do to my engines. I need all hands ready, just in case."

"All right, I'm listening. What's your idea?" Tom asked between mouthfuls of pizza. B'Elanna put down her own fork for a moment. Unlike her at times exasperatingly well-mannered husband, she did not hesitate to speak with her mouth full when she was keen to get information out.

"We bring the Doc to the files. I mean, why not? We sent him all the way to the Alpha Quadrant through a teeny wormhole before. Now we have secure long-range subspace comm links. If he agrees, it'll be a cinch getting him onboard."

Tom considered the matter briefly. Very briefly. A nanosecond, tops. A gleam stole into his eyes, followed by a full-on, super-nova caliber grin.

"And with any luck, Fincher will be so pissed off at us calling in the holographic cavalry that he'll retreat to his quarters and pout. Bee, you're brilliant. I never thought I'd say this out loud, but having the Doc running sickbay here would be just great, even if it's just for a while."

Then something occurred to him. "What makes you think he'll come, though? He's being feted by Starfleet Medical because of all the new diseases, cures and 'Delta Quadrant special techniques' he brought back, and Stan says his human rights case was as good as in the bag with the Supreme Court. Last we saw him, he was as happy as a clam, gearing up for a teaching spot at the Academy as soon as the bureaucrats give the green light that he can be hired."

B'Elanna smiled, a little evilly. "You forget something. He hasn't had a tune-up in five months, the last time we saw him at McKinley to be exact. I'm the only one he trusts to do that, and he _does_ respond to blackmail. And if that fails, I'll just make him feel guilty again about the time he kidnapped me. That, and the prospect of seeing his goddaughter should turn the trick."

Tom grinned at his wife in appreciation. He was about to congratulate her on the thoroughness of her planning, when he was interrupted by a beep from his comm badge.

"Riker to Paris. Commander, please report to the bridge." Tom sighed and shrugged. "No rest for the wicked." He tickled Miral behind the ear and kissed her on her curly head. "See you later, munchkin. Have fun with Aunt Libby, Baby Tommy and the other kids this afternoon."

"Bye, Daddy. Love you!" His daughter had none of his compunctions about speaking around mouthfuls of pizza, and he had to pick a piece of cheese off his uniform. "Me too, munchkin, me too."

The Enterprise's First Officer bounded out the door, while B'Elanna prepared to deposit Miral in the "safe zone" – the reinforced nursery the crew had set up on Deck 10, in the centre of the ship. Designed to provide the children with extra shielding from the effects of expected and unknown radiation, the new location had proven extremely popular with the ship's youngest members and everyone loved the camping-out spirit. The older children delighted in imparting novel ideas of mischief to unsuspecting pre-schoolers, while the little ones basked in the attention of their older idols and mothering the three babies. Miral was particularly fond of "Baby Tommy", Harry and Libby's two-month old little boy (named after her own Daddy!) and loved pretending she was his Big Sister.

When Tom got to the bridge, the view screen was filled with the image of a gaseous ball. Although the size of a planet, it was acting more like a young star – moving on its own in an independent eccentric orbit which the sensors had determined to be loosely connected to, but not apparently dependent on, the central axis of the nebula. Several enormous weather systems in shades of blue, white and green swirled across a surface that looked about as hospitable as the inside of the warp core.

Tom looked at Harry Kim, who was manning Ops. "Bring me up to date?" Neither of them usually could quite get themselves to call the other by their rank, and professionalism required that they – or at least Harry - limit the use of each other's first names while on the bridge. The fact that Harry at times added an automatic "sir" to his responses had bothered Tom at first, but he was getting used to it.

Harry was still, even after nearly a year, slightly in awe at the changes the stint at the James T. Kirk Centre for Advanced Tactical and Strategic Command had wrought in his best friend, and had found it surprisingly easy to accept him as his XO. Luckily though, their off-duty friendship had not been overly affected by their new roles. Tom's ability to compartmentalize in particular had enabled him to draw a thin but clear line between his best friend and the Chief of Operations – although his reliance on the latter definitely benefited from the implicit faith he had in the former. It was "just that name thing," as Tom had put it early on, but since they were both aware of it, hiccups were rare and caused no difficulties.

Captain Riker, for his part, was happy to put up with the occasional breach of protocol as a small price to pay for having what he privately called "the best tag team in Starfleet". Of course, in Riker's mind, no one would ever surpass his friend Data at Ops. His loss was still painfully felt, and Riker looked forward to the regular progress reports of Geordi's attempts to reconstitute Data's memories and core personality algorithms within the B-4 prototype. But in the meantime, Harry Kim was as good as they came, and nearly unbeatable in combination with his Number One. Paris would supply the unorthodox ideas, and Kim – often in combination with the Chief Engineer - the technical expertise to carry them out.

Harry delivered his summary of the object on the view screen in clipped tones. "Class Y planet, sir. Demon class. If we can call it a planet, since it's not presenting much like one. But then again, it doesn't really act like a star either. Best I can label it is a 'rogue celestial body'. Atmosphere a mixture of methane, ammonia and hydrogen sulfide; barometric pressure approximately 850 percent above Earth standard; quadruple Terran gravity; surface temperature 1,375 degrees Kelvin."

Tom whistled. "Nice place for a picnic." He and Harry exchanged a private smile.

"Care to share the joke?" Captain Riker asked. Tom chuckled. "Well, Captain, Harry … Lieutenant Kim and I did have something like a picnic on a place very much like this one once, when Voyager ran out of deuterium. We had no choice but to go down there, and it didn't go over so well. In fact, we kind of _became_ the picnic. Let's just say, I wouldn't recommend an away mission."

Harry cleared his throat. "The interesting thing here is not the planet, though, Captain, it's the moons. There are several dozen, ranging in size from half Luna to small asteroid. Some are capable of sustaining a rudimentary atmosphere. This one here …" he magnified a view of something that looked like an overgrown rock, "… even shows a partial oxygen atmosphere, although it's only the size of Ceres in our solar system's asteroid belt. Hard to say what keeps it in place, let alone how it got there."

Harry paused briefly. "And then there are the … asteroids, again, if that's what you can call them. Just rocks, really. Shards. Almost as if some of the bigger moons blew up, or hit each other and cracked. No atmospheric residue on those, although they may have held one before they were shattered."

"Composition?" Tom asked as he settled in his chair. He switched on his console to select the same image that was on the view screen, overlaid with data.

"It varies," Harry responded. "Detecting several metals and minerals – titanium, deuterium, iron, zinc. The big one shows what could be a large dilithium deposit underground."

Riker whistled appreciatively, exchanged a look with Tom. Dilithium was still rare, and for the Enterprise to come back with a cargo hold full of the crystals would make their mission a success right there, regardless of what else they might find.

Apart from coming in handy to sustain warp for five years should the wormhole fail, but Riker kept that thought to himself.

"Any sign of habitation, life, past or present mining activity?" Harry's fingers flew over his console. He turned with a smile. "None, sir. Unless of course someone blew them up deliberately to get at what's inside."

"Well," Riker said, with a wolfish grin. "Let's have a look at that dilithium deposit then, shall we? Commander Paris, assemble an away team if you please."

Tom considered the matter. "I think I'll pilot Flyer One myself, so we can take an extra minerologist. Jansson of course, and whoever he thinks would be useful. Harry, given the odd operational environment." He nodded at his friend, then paused.

Engineering expertise was required; B'Elanna would ordinarily be his preferred choice given her expertise in dilithium conversion, but Tom himself had instituted a protocol for couples with children, which prevented both parents from being present – and at risk - on away missions at the same time. With the measles epidemic now rampant among the remainder of the non-human engineering staff, that rather limited his choices.

"Lieutenant Jones should be able to assess whether the dilithium is of sufficient quality to be of use in warp technology." Tom hit his comm badge and asked the team to assemble in Shuttle Bay Two in thirty minutes, with their kit.

"Tom, wait." Deanna Troi's voice sounded doubtful, hesitant. The Captain turned towards his wife, as did the First Officer.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure – just … a sense of unease. Fear. From _outside_ the ship."

Tom looked at Riker, sharing in his puzzlement. "But there are no life signs. Harry – scan again please?"

"No life signs, sir. Expanding the sensor band to maximum range and adjusting search parameters to include non-carbon bands … no, nothing. Some energy fluctuations detectable inside the asteroid, but those are consistent with the dilithium deposit."

Tom chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, turned to Deanna who was seated, as was her habit, to the left of the Captain's chair. He had known her for just over a year but had learned very early on not to dismiss her perceptions, however unlikely they might seem to a non-empath.

"Could your senses be affected by the nebula? From what we've seen so far it's extremely high in omicron particles and radiation both above and below the theta band. I read in one of my medical textbooks that certain forms of radiation can interfere with empathic or telepathic receptors – maybe you're getting falsified readings?"

Deanna's frown deepened, as her mind reached out beyond the confines of the ship, searching, stretching the tendrils of her consciousness into the void outside. She shuddered a little, involuntarily. "Maybe. Possibly. I'm not sure. All I know is that there's a sense of dread there. I can't describe it any better than that."

"Well," Tom quipped, "if it's dread you feel, I sympathize. That planet out there gives me the creeps, especially given what happened to us the last time we landed on one like it. They're not called 'demon class' for nothing." He rose, inviting Harry to join him with an elegant sweep of his hand.

Then he remembered something. "Before we head out, Captain, I've been thinking of shoring up our strength in sickbay. B'Elanna believes she can get the EMH we had on Voyager to join us for a bit, if only to study the sudden outbreak of the Vulcan measles we seem to have in Engineering before it crawls out through the Jeffries tubes and infects the rest of the ship."

Tom's eyes gleamed a little, dropping his voice for just the Captain's ear. "And maybe we could convince the Doc to stay until … we get a permanent replacement for Dr. Crusher?"

Riker's responsive grin displayed his impressive canines to their best effect. He understood his Number One perfectly well. "By all means, let's try." More loudly, he said, "Tell the Chief to proceed. Can't let the measles get out of hand, can we?"

Tom turned away, heading off the bridge and towards the turbolift where Harry was already waiting. Punching his comm badge, he called out, "Paris to Torres. B'Elanna, feel free to initiate the EMH protocol we discussed, at your convenience."

Just as he left, Jorak spoke up. "Captain, Commander, while the team is gone, we may want to have one of the smaller pieces tractored into Cargo Bay Three for on-site analysis. It might be useful to determine what caused the break-up." Riker nodded his assent, and Tom issued a quick order to Harry's relief at Ops before he left the bridge.

Deanna whispered after them, "Be careful. Please."


	3. Shiny Things

" _No life signs?"_

" _None."_

" _But you sent your crew in despite your wife's premonition?"_

" _It was not a premonition. My wife is an empath, not a fortune teller."_

" _Will…"_

" _My apologies, your honour. Commander Troi's empathic receptions were not sufficiently well-defined, and not backed up by any sensor readings so as to provide me with any reason for hesitation concerning the away team. By contrast, the geology of the asteroid group was unusual enough to warrant exploration, especially with a potential source of dilithium on that planetoid. You will be aware that it is a sought-after commodity."_

" _Knowing what you know now, would you have acted differently? And sent an away team into danger?"_

" _With all due respect, your honour, hindsight is not something for which we have developed sensors, and speculation is not my forte. And danger is a daily companion in space."_

 _....._

 _  
_

Banking the Flyer through the asteroids, Tom Paris was reminded once more just how much of his soul was tied to the wonder of flight. He resisted the temptation to add a few extra curlicues to his flight path, but there was no denying the exhilaration he felt as the shuttle swooped around and through the mass of rocks, dull black against the pink and purple backdrop of the nebula. Lieutenant Jones, who had not previously seen his XO behind the helm, was mesmerized by the long fingers dancing over the oddly configured console, as if their owner was playing a Chopin suite. He had resisted signing up for one of the Commander's piloting classes, fearing that it would cut into his recreation time, but this looked like so much fun he found himself changing his mind.

Harry Kim, who had witnessed this particular spectacle rather more times than he cared to remember, focused on his own instruments instead, updating his readings and adjusting the Flyer's shields to compensate for minute fluctuations in the outside radiation. Dan Jansson, the tall, thin Chief Geologist, in turn was bent over his tool kit, making last-minute calibrations. Preferring to have both feet - and quite possibly his hands and knees as well - on solid ground, the geologist emitted the occasional curse when the inertial dampeners were a little slow in responding to Tom's lightning-quick maneuvers.

Ensign Sonia Mitchell, for her part, could barely contain her excitement at having been chosen by the Chief Geologist for her first away mission. Fresh out of the Academy and on her first assignment, she had resigned herself to the fact that it would be at least a year or so before she might get the chance to work outside the ship and had been prepared to settle for conducting specimen analysis in the Enterprise's labs. Just being on the Fleet's flagship would have been enough for her – this away mission was above and beyond her wildest dreams. She was practically bouncing; Tom felt tempted to call her 'Tigger'.

"Thank you so much, Commander, for allowing me to come," she breathed for about the third time, as she kept her eyes glued to the view screen. "I promise I won't disappoint you. I wrote my graduation thesis on dilithium crystals, so to actually be the first to investigate a new deposit is such a privilege …"

Tom and Harry exchanged amused glances as she prattled on. "Remind you of someone, Har?" Tom asked softly, biting back a grin. "Ensign Eager…?" Harry chortled. "I swear, I was never _this_ young." Tom shook his head, refusing to rise to the bait.

Instead he turned to Mitchell. "Just remember, Ensign, away missions are about more than doing the job you are used to doing onboard. There is no script, and you will have to be ready for anything. If necessary, that includes flying this shuttle back to Voyager with our bodies in the cargo hold."

Jones cackled, while Mitchell squealed a little and Harry rolled his eyes. "Some reassuring superior officer you are, _Commander, sir."_ "Just reminding Ms Dilithium of her academy training," Tom whispered back. "You never know …"

At that, Tom banked the Flyer around the largest of the asteroids, their target having been acquired. "Estimated three minutes to landing," he said, completely focused on his instruments now.

Harry responded instantly, fully immersed in the back-and-forth between helm and ops they had practiced a hundred times. "Adjusting for 80 percent gravitational pull. Lowering shields to allow for set-down." "Landing struts set. Everyone – assume secure landing positions, protocol for unstable terrain. Going down." A soft, butterfly-light touchdown was taken in stride by Mitchell, who had little basis for comparison, but caused Jones and Jansson to exchange glances.

"My lady, gentlemen, the Flyer has landed. Please take your candy wrappers and newsvids with you as you depart. Thank you for flying the Friendly Skies."

Harry snorted. He ran his instruments through atmospheric verification checks twice before announcing that while the atmosphere appeared breathable, there was sufficient radiation to suggest that protection for those exiting the Flyer was advisable.

"Light EVA suits should do it, including face shielding, but no oxygen tanks required," he informed Tom. "Reinforcing external radiation shielding to the Flyer."

Tom scrambled into his protective suit – not his favourite garment by a long shot, but he also had sufficient experience with ambient radiation not to wish to rely on a mere hypospray for protection. Jansson spoke up. "Sir, based on the scans we took it looks like the terrain could indeed be unstable. With low-grav conditions, we may find ourselves knocking things off, causing slides."

"Good point, Jansson," Tom responded. "Harry, keep a transporter lock on us just in case. Can you do that through the rad shielding?"

"Affirmative. Have a nice walk, folks - sir. Comm links are open." Harry busied himself with putting the Flyer back into take-off settings, already running pre-flight checks as Tom led the team out through the rear hatch.

Tom looked around the landing site. He had managed to locate a relatively flat surface to bring the shuttle down, aided by the craft's small size, but the site was surrounded by solid rock faces and a few enormous boulders, which looked like they had been scoured by a blast of some kind. He scanned the closest one with his tricorder. There were no apparent signs of life of any kind, no lichen, no spores, nothing.

"Jansson," he called through the EVA suit's comm link. "Can those striations be the result of natural erosion?"

The geologist shook his head. "There is nothing here that could move these boulders around on its own – insufficient meteorological activity, no water to cause erosion, and no evidence of tectonic plate movement. The only possibility is seismic activity or catastrophic external intervention. They may have come from outside this asteroid, part of the shards we saw. I'll run an analysis on the possibilities if you'd like, sir."

"Sure, sounds good, go ahead. Anything we can learn about the conditions out here is useful. Stay in view of the Flyer though since you're by yourself. Mitchell, Jones and I will go look at the dilithium deposit."

Tom led the team towards a small opening in the rock face where his tricorder, linked to the earlier sensor readings, indicated the presence of dilithium as well as a cavern. The lower gravity made the scramble over the loose, uneven surface a lot less strenuous than it might have been on Earth. His inner ten-year-old had always preferred low-grav environments to full-out space walks for their pure fun factor, and he had to resist the urge to bound over the rocks just to see how fast and far he could go. Tom sighed to himself. Commanding officers did have to set some standards of decorum …

He shone his wrist flashlight into the tunnel. "Alright, let's set up illumination posts every 10 meters or so," he instructed Mitchell who had brought the case of spot lights with her.

"Aye sir. Do you want me to do seismic checks before we go in?"

"No it's okay, we can do that from the Flyer. Harry, did you hear that? Can you do seismic scans for us?"

"Sure thing. You going in now?"

"No time like the present," Tom responded and waved Jones forward to set the lights at the indicated intervals, ahead of himself and Mitchell, who was carrying a couple of sample collection boxes. The cave was narrow and the footing a bit loose in places, but the ceiling was of sufficient height that even Tom could walk without having to duck.

After a few twists and turns the corridor opened into a wide space, a steep but not too deep slope leading into an open cavern. Mitchell stopped dead in her tracks.

"Holy shit," she breathed as her small flashlight threw back sparks and lights, refracting the beams into a million rainbows. "Oh, sorry sir. I got carried away." Tom chuckled. "It's alright, Ensign. You took the words right out of my mouth. Harry, you should see this. I have never seen so much dilithium in my life. It's … unbelievable. It's just stunning." Jones let out a long, soundless whistle.

Dilithium. The walls of the cave were lines with hundreds and thousands of the rare, pure white crystals, so necessary for the matter-antimatter conversion in the Federation's warp drive technology. All of them had seen the crystals before, of course, but never in such quantity. And here, in their natural setting, Tom appreciated for the first time just how breathtakingly beautiful they were. He certainly could not begrudge Mitchell her child-like enthusiasm as she practically ran into the cave, looking this way and that, beaming a smile so broad it practically illuminated her view plate from within.

"Slow down, ensign," he laughed. "The incline here is pretty steep and the rocks likely loose. The last thing we need is to have to carry you up a scree with a broken ankle. Even in low grav that's tricky." She turned to him, waved her understanding and proceeded to move at a somewhat more sedate pace.

Once into the cave proper, Tom broke a small crystal off the wall, and handed it to Jones. "What do you think?" he asked, softly, not wishing to spoil the mood in this magical place. "Can we work with this?"

Jones held the crystal up to the flashlight on his right wrist, then sat it down on a rocky outcropping and ran his tricorder over it a couple of times. His face told Tom everything he needed to know. "Sir, it's unbelievably pure. I've never seen anything like it."

"Alright," Tom squinted at the sight around him, watched his wrist light refracting into rainbow glitters off a thousand crystal planes, and squatted down on his heels. "Let's figure out a way to bring some of them out. Mitchell – what's the best approach to a spot of impromptu dilithium mining?"

The young ensign, who stood in the middle of the cave entranced by the view, reluctantly turned around to face her superior officer. "The smaller ones we can loosen by hand," she said. "We can cut the biggest ones off with a phaser. They won't shatter if we use the higher frequencies. On their own they are impervious to the de-molecularization process of our transporters though, so we will have to carry them out to the Flyer by hand." She lifted the sample collection boxes she was carrying to indicate that she had come prepared.

"All right then, let's do it, folks." Tom stood up again, and pulled his phaser out of its holster. "Paris to Kim. Heads up - we're about to loosen some rocks with phasers; you may notice a small fluctuation in the seismic readings." He reset his phaser to the highest frequency.

"Understood," Harry's voice came over the comm, flat and professional. Tom activated his comm badge again. "Paris to Jansson. Care to lend us a hand down here?"

Resisting the urge to whistle a tune from a 20th century cartoon he had watched with Miral which involved a bunch of dwarves engaged in diamond mining, Tom took one of Mitchell's collection boxes and headed towards a corner of the cave where he had noticed some particularly well-formed specimens. _B'Elanna will love this_ , he thought with a smile. Anything that made her engines purr made his wife purr as well. Maybe he could bring a small crystal back and turn it into a piece of jewelry for her – ordinarily the crystals were too valuable for such extravagant use, but given the quantities here …

Tom shone his flashlight into the corner, to determine the best angle for cutting into the crystals that jutted out from the wall like horizontal icicles.

And froze.

Cowering in the shadows was a small figure, pale blue and somewhat translucent. A face looked up at Tom, slightly bulging iridescent spaces – eyes? - widened and started to whirl in what he presumed to be fear. The child-sized, almost featureless body – humanoid only insofar as it seemed to have a head, a torso and enough extremities to allow it to move - pressed up against the wall, the whirling eyes closed and as its head tilted back, the figure emitted a pulse of light. Its body grew brighter, incandescent, causing the crystals on the ceiling to throw jagged shadows.

"Paris to away team, we're not alone here. Repeat, we're not alone. Harry, do you read?"

As Tom was forced to hold up his hand to shield his eyes against the suddenly blinding light emanating from the creature, a sudden explosion rocked the cave, followed by a grumbling as the ground began to shake. Both Tom and the creature were knocked backwards. The EVA suit shielding neutralized most of the concussive effect and thanks to the low gravity, Tom was able to recover quickly and get back on his feet.

Time slowed down as adrenaline poured into his body, and number of things happened at once. The shaking of the cave intensified and he heard Harry gasp through the open comm link, "Seismic alert! Get out – NOW!" Tom tore his eyes off the now barely glowing creature, which had been flung against the cave wall by the force of the explosion, its head at a curious, unnatural-looking angle. Its inner luminescence seemed to be dimming as he watched and it no longer moved. He swung around. From a corner of his field of vision he saw Jones scrambling towards the cave mouth, pulled up and out by Jansson.

 _Where's Mitchell?_

Ensign Sonia Mitchell sat motionless in the centre of the cave, frozen into place where she had been thrown, staring at the motionless alien, who was now but a shadow cast by one of the away team's toppled spot lights. Crystals started to shake loose around her, bouncing off her EVA suit, scratching her face plate, and yet she did not move. Tom knew instinctively that calling to the young ensign would only root her more firmly to the ground.

 _Got to get to Mitchell …_

Tom bolted, scrambled across the rocks to reach her, swatting unthinkingly at the sharp crystals that were raining down on him. He cursed as he was hit in the shoulder by a particularly large piece, but felt no pain - for the moment. _Thank goodness for adrenaline_ , his medical training whispered to him. _Best painkiller ever invented._ When he reached Mitchell he pulled her up and forward, hissing at her through his comm badge, "Come on Ensign, on your feet. That's an order. MOVE!"

She shook her head as if emerging from a trance, the spell broken just enough to enable her to cling to him like drowning victims often do to their rescuers, pulling both to their doom. Her dead weight made it impossible for him to make any useful progress, and there was no time to wait for her to start moving on her own. The cave was coming down around them. Silently thanking the benefits of low gravity, Tom picked the young woman up unceremoniously, slung her over his left – uninjured - shoulder and headed towards the cave mouth.

The already loose footing of the scree, rendered even more treacherous by the shaking floor and the crystals that were falling off the walls and ceiling, made the way forward painfully slow. With single-minded drive he headed towards the light Jones had set up earlier at the cave mouth, their only avenue of escape.

Tom uttered a noxious Klingon oath as an enormous rock, spiked with sparkling crystals that no longer held any beauty for him, rolled into his path, trapping his right foot. As if in slow-motion he saw a piece of the ceiling detach itself, and it was by pure instinct that he threw rather than dropped Mitchell on the ground, into the small space underneath the rock he had just so colourfully cursed.

Trying to cover her body with his own caused him to twist the knee in the trapped leg, and Tom screamed out with the sudden wrenching pain. Instinctively remembering to shelter the back of his head with his arms, wincing at the protest made by his right shoulder as he did so, Tom felt his left hand slowly get crushed. Then the breath was pushed out of his lungs as the weight of the entire ceiling seemed to press down on him.

As darkness closed in, his last thought was of Miral.


	4. Picking up the Pieces

" _So you saw an alien in the cave, yet you made absolutely no attempt at initiating first contact procedures?"_

 _Slow, deep breath. Calm down, Thomas Eugene. Count to three and take the high road._

" _The vital sign readings from my EVA suit and the seismic sensor record will show that approximately 5 to 10 seconds elapsed between the time my heart rate accelerated due to the unexpected appearance of the alien, the explosion and the time the cave started collapsing due to the seismic shock. I would submit that this is insufficient time for first contact procedures even under the most ordinary of circumstances. Sir."_

" _You say the alien glowed. Why did you not at the very least get any radiation readings off him? Would that not have saved you some time later on?"_

" _Again, sir, I saw him and the shit hit … sorry, things started to go very badly, very quickly. No, I did not have time to pull out my tricorder. And frankly, at the time I was not thinking about what might or might not happen later on. I was somewhat caught up in the now."_

" _I see. That seems to be your problem, young man. Not thinking about what might happen later on. And if the members of the jury have any issues with my line of questioning, I would appreciate it if they could voice these out loud. I will not have whispering in my courtroom, not even by the Commissioners."_

 

.....

 

"Can someone please tell me what the hell happened down there?"

The Captain's voice cut through the blinding pain that was enveloping Tom's brain, but it was indistinct, as if he were hearing it underneath ten feet of water. He wanted to snap to attention, wanted to answer, but he couldn't move and no air seemed available to touch his vocal chords.

Tom felt the cold hypo spray pressing against his neck. _Why are medical instruments always cold?_ Darkness closed in again.

"He's crashing. Nurse, get me another hundred cc's of tri-cortazine, NOW!"

"Tom, stay with me." B'Elanna? What was she doing in the cave?

"You need to stay awake, Tom."

 _Head hurts. Sleep._

Flashes of light through the red haze.

 _Light. Pain. Take it away!_

"Tom, stay awake. Please."

"Commander Paris, open your eyes. I know the light hurts but it's important. I need to see your eyes."

Why couldn't they leave him alone? _Sleep. Please._

"He's slipping again, Doctor."

"Not if I can help it. Nurse, tri-ox mask. NOW!"

The Doc?

 _Can't breathe. Can't see. Mitchell … Gotta get to Mitchell …_

"Nurse, restrain the patient please. He mustn't move. Thank you. Now, we must get him to open his eyes."

"TOM!"

Why was B'Elanna yelling at him? Tom's eyes flew open.

"Good, you're with us, Commander. Now look at the light. Good, good. Severe concussion, but no permanent trauma. Intracranial pressure elevated but inside tolerance limits. Mr. Paris, it looks like your hard head has saved you once again. Your chest, however, is a different matter."

Tom felt a cool hand on his forehead, brushing hair away. Something wet falling on his cheek.

 _Klingons don't cry._

"M... M… M'tch..?"

"Mitchell is fine, Tom. You saved her. She's here. The rest of the away team is fine too."

"Nurse, osteo-regenerator. Start with the ribs that punctured the lungs. The shoulder and hand can wait. Captain, if you have no business being in this sickbay, please leave. You too, B'Elanna."

"I'm not going anywhere."

His B'Elanna. Stubborn as a mule. Tom tried to smile, weakly, and failed.

 _Must breathe. Can't breathe._

"Fine. Then make yourself useful and help Ensign Mitchell. I know for a fact that you can handle a dermal regenerator. Nurse, surgical arch. Commander - Tom – you may sleep now."

 _Darkness._

"I almost lost you today," she whispered, her left hand entwined in his, her right stroking his hair. "Again."

Tom looked at the face he loved, still stained with the tears he had once believed she would never shed. His voice, when it came, was labored, his breathing still shallow and ragged.

"I'm sorry, Bee. Mitchell …"

"I know. I heard. You did what you had to do."

Word that the First Officer had almost died saving the life of the junior geologist had raced through the ship like an ion storm, and B'Elanna knew she should be proud of him. Then why did she feel so angry, wanting to yell at him for almost leaving her and Miral, for the sake of a stranger?

It wasn't rational, and she knew it. She also knew what he would say if she challenged him. Caldik Prime. Pete Durst. Joe Carey. _Not on my watch. Not again. Not if I can help it._

So B'Elanna said nothing, continued stroking her mate's soft blond hair, until his eyes closed again in exhausted sleep. What she really wanted to do – craved, with a hunger that frightened her a little - was to touch him everywhere, with hands and lips and tongue, to breathe in his scent, taste his skin, to reassure herself with all her senses that he was still there, still whole, still hers. But this was Sickbay, and she had to content herself with drinking in the sight of his face, looking so ridiculously young and innocent as he slept, listening to his still-rasping, shallow breath.

When she was satisfied that he was resting comfortably, she turned to the EMH who was busily reorganizing the Enterprise's sickbay to his liking, evidently planning to move in for the long haul. He had wasted no time informing anyone who would listen that the place was a shambles, and its current occupant an incompetent fool.

"Doc, I don't know how to thank you."

The Doctor dismissed her with his usual brusqueness. "I'm glad you called when you did. Clearly, this ship needs someone who knows what they are doing. Besides, no one knows the inside of your husband's head like I do. Or, for that matter, any other of the body parts he likes to bend, break and mutilate far too regularly, a pattern he seems to have continued on board this ship. I have no idea how he has managed to stay alive this long without me."

B'Elanna chortled ruefully. "Too true … I also know he wouldn't have wanted anyone else here, if he'd had a choice. But I do want to know one thing. How did you get Fincher to leave sickbay after we transferred you onboard?"

The Doctor gave a snort, into which he injected as much dripping contempt as his vocal subroutines were capable of. "Vulcan measles. The very thing you asked me to come here and look into. I've quarantined him in his quarters for the next three days - him and everyone he has come into contact with in the last 48 hours. I also sterilized this sickbay, something _he_ apparently considered beneath him."

B'Elanna frowned. "That's interesting. Tom said the Vulcan measles don't spread to humans, and only very rarely to non-Vulcans."

"That is correct, but it looks like our _Doctor_ Fincher – I have yet to check whether he in fact _has_ a medical degree - has some Bajoran blood in him that his parents apparently neglected to mention. Once I get this poor excuse for a sickbay into some semblance of order and finish cleaning up after your husband's uncontrollable urge to play the hero, I'll find out why this bacterium has suddenly developed such an interest in apparently unrestricted growth and inter-species propagation. Hopefully I will be able to do so before the entire ship succumbs."

The Doctor's voice softened a little. "But for now, Commander, I would suggest you go and get some rest. You've been through a lot today. Tom will be fine here, and if we keep the regenerators running through the night, he should be able to return to light duty tomorrow. Not that I could stop him, of course. I never could before, and I doubt he has suddenly come to his senses. Him and Captain Janeway – I never could get either of them to respect their bodies."

B'Elanna clapped her hand on the EMH's arm. "Thanks again Doc. I may bring Miral by a bit later. She missed her Daddy at dinner, and now that he is more or less presentable again I'd be happy to let her see him if she's still awake. I'm sure she will also be excited to know you're here, 'Uncle Doc'."

He smiled at hearing his goddaughter's name for him and watched after her until the door swished shut behind her. His face serious again, he turned back to the biobed and his patient.

"Now, Nurse, what did you say your name was? Ogawa? If you would be so kind, please check the progress of the Commander's lung tissue regeneration …"

Will Riker sat back in his chair at the briefing room table, his arms crossed in front of his broad chest. "So, you're telling me that one moment you were getting ready to cut dilithium crystals and the next, some … some alien appears out of nowhere, the cave collapses and I almost lose my First Officer?"

He glared a challenge at the members of the away team who were sitting across from him, squirming uncomfortably. Both Jones and Jansson were acutely aware that their XO's survival was solely the result of Lieutenant Kim's lightning-quick recourse to the transporter, the second he realized that only half the team had emerged from the cave. If he had delayed any longer, the transporter would not have been able to penetrate the dilithium-lined rocks once the cave mouth collapsed.

In their own haste to escape the collapsing cave, the mobile team members had had no time to analyze the cause of the catastrophe, and although no blame attached to their lack of injuries, they both still felt as if they had somehow failed both the mission and their First Officer. Survivors' syndrome, the Counselor had called it during their post-trauma debrief. They would get over it, in time.

As for Harry Kim, he repeated to the full senior staff what he had reported privately to the Captain the night before. "Seismic measurements went from flatline to a 9.0 Richter equivalent spike, very short-lived, without any prior tremblings, then went down to 8.4 Richter, held at that level for a minute, then stopped. No aftershocks at all – total flatline again. Very localized, with the epicenter right in the cave where the away team was located. Causation unknown, but consistent with an explosion precision-set to trigger a substantial but limited seismic reaction."

He added, a bit defiantly as the Captain continued to glower, "And no, we detected no explosive device before, during or after we landed. It may have been cloaked. Nor were there any unknown life signs."

Ensign Mitchell, her skin still rosy in places where the dermal regenerator had healed a number of lacerations and bruises, swallowed hard. "Sir, if I may say something?" Riker nodded encouragingly. He knew the young woman had spent half the night in Deanna's care, sobbing uncontrollably about the panic attack that had caused her to freeze and almost kill the Commander. Deanna was sitting beside her now, rather than in her usual seat to his right, leaning slightly into the young woman as if to infuse her with her own strength.

"Just before … the shaking started, I saw the Commander shine his flashlight into a corner. And I thought I saw something _move_." The last word was uttered almost defiantly, as if she needed to convince herself. "Then there was a glow, and it did not come from the Commander's wrist light. It was more like a radiance that got stronger and stronger, and I heard him shout something over the comm link, about us not being alone. After that … there was a blast and then the shaking started." She faltered and looked to Deanna Troi, who patted her arm in a comforting gesture.

"She's right." The voice came from the briefing room door, which had opened to admit Tom Paris, pale and obviously a bit shaky on his feet, but with a look of grim determination on his face. B'Elanna half rose from her chair in indignation at seeing him out of sickbay, but sank back when he said, in a conciliatory tone meant for her alone, "The Doc cleared me for light duty, and this can't wait."

Tom dropped into the chair at the Captain's right with something rather less than his customary grace, wincing as he maneuvered his shoulder to rest his hands on the table. When Mitchell gave an audible sniff at the sight, he quickly compensated by giving her one of his lopsided grins and a wink. Turning to the Captain, he explained what he had seen.

"A face, a figure. Small, almost like a humanoid child. Of course it's hard to know when you haven't seen a species before, but it seemed terrified when I flashed my light into the corner where it was hiding. … Let me see if I can show you what it looked like."

He looked up, addressing himself to the ceiling above the briefing room table. "Computer, create a holographic image, humanoid-shaped skull, skin tone between Bolian and Andorian … no, lighter, three shades."

With a few concise verbal directions and deft finger movements across the holographic image, Tom sketched out a small figure, focusing on the head since the alien's limbs had been mostly in shadow in the split second he had seen it. He stretched and compacted the skull in appropriated places, smoothed out the area where most humanoid races had external ears and nostrils. Finally, Tom had the computer add the multifaceted rainbow-coloured eye indentations he remembered so clearly. When he was done, he set the image to rotate slowly in the middle of the table before ordering the computer to light it gradually from within, until it glowed nearly white.

"There. That's what I saw in that cave. When the explosion happened, the alien was flung against the wall, and its … light … dimmed, then went out. I was knocked off my feet as well. What happened to it afterwards I have no idea; from this point on I was focusing on … other things."

Everybody spoke at once. "But there were no life signs!'

"We scanned a dozen times …"

"Of course the Commander is right, I saw it too, just before …"

"When I locked on for transport, there was only you and Mitchell, Tom."

Finally, Captain Riker held up his hand to stem the cacophony. Silence fell immediately. He turned to his wife. "Deanna?"

She looked at Tom apologetically; he smiled at her and nodded, giving her the silent go-ahead to delve into and publicly report on his state of mind. Looking him in the eye as she spoke, she said, "He's reporting what he saw. It's clearly a memory, I don't sense the incoherence or gaps you get from an illusion."

She hesitated before continuing, "Besides, the fear Tom thinks he saw in the alien's face is consistent with the feelings I sensed before the away team deployed. I also sensed a sudden spike in that feeling just before … the away team was beamed out. I thought I was imagining something because it was so short, but it's consistent with Tom's report. I believe it's fair to assume that the fear I felt throughout was probably projected by that creature. It must have been very strong to reach this far, or else they are a telepathic race with considerable capacity."

Silence fell over the briefing room as the officers present digested this information. They looked at each other, uncertain what to do with it, where to turn next for answers, or even just more questions. More pieces were needed for the puzzle to resolve into anything worth guessing at.

Breaking the lengthening silence, Jorak turned to Jansson. "Lieutenant, did your team tractor in some of the asteroid fragments, as I had suggested, and examine them? Was there any evidence of bio matter present?"

Jansson cleared his throat, glad finally to be able to report something useful. "No bio matter, but traces of dilithium. Similar composition to the crystals in the cave. It looks like the fragments are the remnants of asteroids similar to the one the away team landed on."

He paused, not so much for effect as for reflection, as if he still couldn't believe what his team had found. "We also discovered evidence of explosion dispersal patterns, both on the boulders I examined on the asteroid and on some of the sheared-off rock faces we brought in. Wherever those pieces originally came from, they did not break up due to natural causes. Something or someone has been laying mines in these asteroids. They're booby trapped."

Harry whistled softly. "Looks like Tom's bright little friend may have had reason to be afraid."


	5. Detonations

" _When you are saying that you were attacked without provocation, on what exactly are you basing that statement? Who fired first? Did you receive any warnings that you were in disputed space?"_

" _They did. No warnings. Nothing."_

" _So you claim you did nothing to provoke the attack."_

" _That's correct. We didn't even know they were there; they had refractive shielding. In the sensor-deafening particle soup that's the Trifid, that is almost as good as a Romulan cloaking device."_

" _Yes, yes. But you returned fire, of course."_

" _Your honour, perhaps it would be advisable to have my client relate the events in sequence, rather than having you … I mean us … speculate upon what did or did not happen."_

" _I am entitled to ask questions, counsel, and I will ask those that I feel are pertinent to this case, when I believe it is important to ask them. Did you or did you not return fire?"_

" _No your honour, we did not. The circumstances were not appropriate to do so."_

" _Are you telling me that Starfleet has gotten to a point where its flagship vessel just sits and takes a hit without fighting back? Have we learned nothing from the war we just went through?"_

" _No, your honour, we do not just 'sit and take a hit', and yes, we have learned a great many lessons from the Dominion war. Including that subtlety, unorthodoxy and differing strategic approaches are better than knee-jerk retaliation. There are always times when the use of force is the least appropriate tactical choice. This was such a time. Perhaps if you permit me to explain?"_

" _Your client is learning manners, counsel. Very well, Commander. Proceed."_

.....

 

The Enterprise, assisted by numerous unmanned probes, had carried out a systematic and detailed close-range search pattern, consisting of a grid within a five-light-year radius of the asteroid where the away team had nearly come to grief. The close search was overlaid with wide sensor sweeps. B'Elanna and Harry had woven a bit of their old Delta Quadrant magic, and had used the deflectors to extend the reach of instruments whose efficiency was severely affected by the increasing readings of theta band radiation in this section of the nebula.

But so far, nothing of interest had been found.

"This is like swimming in tomato soup," Tom remarked at the external view, which was dominated by impenetrable red and pink swirls, washing into purples. A starship pilot to the core, he considered any molecular density in excess of a pure vacuum as an untoward interference with navigation, and hence a personal insult. The external radicals made it nearly impossible to detect impending dangers – whether they be gravitational sinkholes, subspace anomalies, or approaching ships. Now that they had found evidence of some form of life, not to mention booby-trapped asteroids, the latter had become an uncomfortable possibility, and the Captain had agreed to put the ship on yellow alert.

Communications back to Starfleet had also been disrupted; interference from the odd physical environment of the nebula was so great that even enhanced subspace transmissions yielded nothing more than stellar static.

But they still had a great deal of exploration to do, and so far had found no indicators for why the stellar nursery that was the Trifid had suddenly started to become so unaccountably prolific. Not to mention where the single, apparently shipless, alien might have come from. The only readily quantifiable element of their search was the radiation levels. Even these seemed to wax and wane though; the black particle bands that gave the Trifid its name in particular seemed to act like an impenetrable shield against certain types of ambient radiation.

Added to the enigmatic environment were a variety of planetoids and rogue bodies, all of which, like the demon-class specimen whose moons they had investigated earlier, displayed completely erratic patterns of motion. There had been no signs of life on any of the locations they investigated, and no evidence at all of any starship or other vessel that could have accounted for a life form on an otherwise barren asteroid. Nothing, although some of the asteroid fragments did show the presence of both dilithium crystals and an unknown form of plasma explosive residue.

Riker would only permit the tractoring in of samples for analysis. He firmly refused Tom's half-hearted suggestion to send out another away team for closer analysis in a sensor-deprived environment. "I'll consider it if and when we make sense out of the physical phenomena in this nebula. Until then, there are too many variables and until we have a reliable way of detecting and disarming any booby-traps, I won't risk losing a member of my crew. Not even you, Commander, no matter how many lives you think you have left."

It was on the Enterprise's sixth day in the Trifid when suddenly the radiation spiked. Her shields, modified to withstand all known forms of radiation, seemed to hold and there were no immediately reported effects on the ship' systems or crew. Harry Kim's sensors did, however, finally find something rather intriguing.

"Captain, the latest radiation burst can be clearly traced to an asteroid approximately half a light year from here. On screen … now. Radiation is still increasing, mostly in the known spectrum, some omicron rads, and a pulse I can't identify, far beyond the theta band. It's been on the increase in the last three days, but it's accelerating enough now to qualify as a localized surge."

The view screen over helmsman Marc O'Reilly's head filled with a black, irregular shape that stood in dark and solid contrast to the swirling curtains of red, pink and purple. The pilot was focused on his instrument readings, impervious to the beauty before him.

And then, suddenly, something on the jagged shape flashed into a blinding white light so intense the bridge crew members had to shield their eyes. Deanna Troi, whose near-black Betazoid eyes absorbed more light than an ordinary human's, gave a gasp of pain.

"Darken screen," Riker barkedeven as Jorak lunged for his console and punched in the necessary commands.

Still the light kept brightening, until even on the darkest setting the screen was nearly white. After a few seconds of near-unbearable intensity, the brightness collapsed into itself, coalescing into a glowing oval. It hovered briefly in place, before arcing away and streaking into the red curtain of the nebula, leaving the black, jagged asteroid hanging in space like a dead husk.

Silence reigned on the bridge.

"What was _that_?" muttered Harry Kim, more to himself than anything, certainly not expecting an answer. "A miniature supernova?"

"Joy. Freedom." Deanna's voice, even though it was barely above a whisper, caught everybody's attention.

"Life."

.....

 

The briefing room was quiet, even though the Captain had called on more than the usual small group of senior officers to attend. Cran was there, the Chief Astrophysicist; Jansson from Planetary Geology; and the EMH, whom Riker had gratefully appointed Acting Chief Medical Officer, in light of Fincher's ongoing incapacitation.

"Analysis?" Riker looked around the table.

Looking around the table to see if anyone else wanted to go first, Deanna Troi took the floor. "Based on the emotion I sensed, we witnessed the emergence of a new life form. An energy-based life form, able to at least to some extent project feelings telepathically. I'm not sure whether they can receive telepathic communications –both Jorak and I and another Betazoid crew members have tried to reach out - but based on what I felt, I have now doubt that they are sentient."

"The emergence is consistent with the visual records of what, seeing it from 5,500 light years away and with the accompanying time delays, we thought of as new stars being born." Cran glared at the screen with its picture of the Trifid nebula with undisguised resentment. This mission had been supposed to be about astrophysical phenomena; she had hoped to get at least one paper out of it afterwards, maybe an invitation to lecture at the Academy's Institute for Advanced Astrophysics. Instead, she could practically feel the xeno-biologists horning in on her turf and she did not like it in the least. "At least we were right about the 'being born' part."

Jansson chimed in. "And as we noted earlier, the asteroid where it happened was similar to the one we investigated earlier. Presence of considerable quantities of dilithium. Consistent geological environment. For what that's worth."

Harry Kim took his turn, reporting for Ops. "The event was accompanied by increased radiation levels, some unknown types, both leading up to the emergence and with a serious spike during. The radiation and other stuff continue to interfere with our sensors. We can't tell where the … life form went, or if there are any more about to arrive on the scene."

Harry's frustration at the unreliability of his instruments was palpable. "Oh, and one thing we did notice. The energy signature the being left behind is not dissimilar to the residue of the matter-antimatter exchange, consistent with the use of dilithium in warp technology."

B'Elanna looked at him, mildly incredulous. "You saying this … this _thing_ … is related to my warp core?" Harry shrugged. "Just reporting what my instruments tell me. Which admittedly, is little enough."

Jorak's clipped, flat voice reassured those present that even though the energy had evidenced no immediate hostile intent, he preferred to keep the ship in its current state of heightened readiness. Undetected, possibly undetectable, explosive charges, likely intended to destroy beings capable of emitting dangerously high radiation levels, were a sufficient cause for concern. Whatever had mined the asteroids, might also have mined space. Yellow alert and appropriate shift protocols should be maintained.

Riker nodded his agreement and looked around the table. "So, in other words, we are exactly where we were three days ago, only with more mysteries having been added to the ones we already had on our plate." He pounded the table with his flat hands in frustration, beginning to wish privately the admiralty had sent a science vessel rather than the Enterprise. They had the same equipment, but they had sent the Titan as originally suggested, at least he would no longer be involved. Riker much preferred solutions to enigmas, and with none in the offing for days now, the impatient part of his personality threatened to come to the fore.

The EMH cleared his throat. "I'm not certain that this is relevant to the present discussion, but since this is the first time I have been invited to a staff briefing …," he glared at Tom and the Captain with all the sniffy indignation his subroutines could offer, "… I thought I would mention that there are thirteen new cases of the Vulcan measles onboard as of this morning. All have been quarantined and I am working on adapting the Vulcan vaccine to human, Bajoran, Kitarian and Bolian physiologies, since those species are the most prevalent on board. Since the bacterium has not previously affected those species and appears to be mutating at an astonishing rate, I will have to be creative. Fortunately for you, dealing with the unknown is a specialty of mine."

He paused briefly, making sure he had Riker's attention. "I would recommend, Captain, that crew members from non-human species – there are I believe eleven different races represented aboard, for a total of thirty-nine individuals – be quarantined until I can prioritize a vaccine for them. The children should all remain in their 'safe zone' for the time being. I have detected no sign of the bacterium there, but would like to keep it that way."

The Doctor looked at B'Elanna, who, if the flash in her eyes was any indication, was about to protest vociferously at the thought of being confined to her quarters for an indefinite period of time. "Fortunately, Lieutenant Commander Torres and her Klingon genes appear to be immune. She spent a rather inordinate amount in sickbay the other day where the epidemic originated, thanks to my … 'colleague'. Nonetheless, she seems to have come out unscathed. There is something to be said for coming of such … vigorous genetic stock." She rolled her eyes and snorted, while Tom chuckled to himself. He had to remember that line for future, private use.

Riker nodded his assent; the precaution seemed sensible and the numbers of incapacitated or quarantined crewmembers were not sufficient to seriously affect operations. Yet. Crew schedules and shift rotations would need to be adapted, of course.

Tom, who had remained silent and in listening mode throughout the proceedings, looked up at the EMH thoughtfully. "Doctor, could there be a connection between the radiation types and levels we've been experiencing out here, and bacterial activity?"

Riker sat up, interested. The Doctor opened his mouth, intent on voicing a protest, but closed it again when he realized that his erstwhile assistant had not actually dared to question his assessment, but rather opened up new avenues for consideration based on his own presentation. Even if these were possibilities he himself hadn't considered, but that could be forgiven. Keeping his voice as neutral as he could, the EMH allowed, "An intriguing idea, and not entirely unreasonable, Mr. Paris. We do have sufficient cultures to conduct the necessary experiments."

Tom nodded, adding, "Jorak, can you have Tactical ready one of the escape pods? We'll need to take the cultures outside the ship's shielding for maximum radiation impact."

The Doctor glared at Tom again, this time for the sin of presuming how he should best conduct the experiment, but wisely kept his counsel. Even he had to admit the suggestion made sense, but more importantly, there was the Commander's position on the ship to consider; this was no longer the mere medic he could abuse at will. Tom, reading his old nemesis rather better than the latter would have liked to contemplate, gave him a lopsided grin, just this side of smugness. Sometimes, to paraphrase something B'Elanna had once said, it was nice to be the _First_ Officer…

In the absence of any new insights or issues to discuss, Riker adjourned the meeting.

As a result, all senior officers were at their respective duty stations when the ship started rocking from the impact of weapons fire, and a console exploded in engineering.

"Shields up – Red Alert!"

No matter how often this particular command was issued, it never failed to spike adrenaline levels in all who heard it – that miracle of human body chemistry that had allowed their ancestors to survive packs of sabre-tooth tigers stalking their caves. Senses sharpened, reaction speed doubled, time slowed down.

But for Tom and Harry, now there was an additional reason for that hyper-awareness. The friends exchanged a brief glance, in mutual understanding of just how much things had changed for them since their time on Voyager: conducting a battle with your own child onboard was several orders of magnitude beyond fighting for mere survival. Was the agony of not being able to run and protect your child, on balance, worth having them present onboard to watch them grow up?

There was no ready answer, at least not while the red lights were flashing and the ship was rocking. No time to doubt, no time to question.

This was their life, and now their children's. This was Starfleet.

Professional masks snapped firmly back into place, fingers started to dance over consoles, weapons were readied, scans initiated, and all thoughts focused on the moment.

The shields, which at first fire had only been set and modulated to block radiation rather than phaser fire, seemed to be holding once augmented, draining only at a rate of two percent per strike. That was the good news.

"Origin?" Riker barked, even as the damage report came in from engineering. Two injured, none critical. They would have to deal later with the reasons why the ship had not been detected, if indeed they would ever find out. The conditions in the Trifid continued to defy all of Starfleet's conventional instruments.

Tom dredged up a memory from a battle fought long ago. "Harry – try a metaphasic sweep. Based on incoming missile vector I'd start … port stern, sweeping thirty degrees counterclockwise."

Harry started to shake his head; his sensors were still unreliable, but … it was worth a try. "Initiating metaphasic sweep." He looked up, surprised. How the hell did Tom know where the ship would be? Oh yes, of course. Pilot. Dogfights. Kazon, Borg, you name it. "There. I have it. Vector Zero Zero Niner, a hundred thousand klicks out. On screen now."

"Lock on phasers." The Captain. "Helm, evasive maneuver Paris Beta Pi, and align with sensors and tactical."

"Aye, sir." O'Reilly complied competently, fluidly. Regardless, Tom had to repress an urge to rush for the helm, especially since the Captain was engaging the multi-station alignment he had developed during his strategic and command training; he was itching to try it out himself for real. He held on to the arms of his chair to keep himself from betraying the unbidden impulse, still strong after all this time. Delegation, he had found, was by far the hardest part of command. He wondered if he would ever get used to it.

The alien ship, when it appeared on the view screen, was smaller than expected, a clumsy-looking contraption about a quarter the size of Voyager. "Weapons systems are no match for the Enterprise," Jorak confirmed. "No warp drive, just a form of impulse. Our shields are holding; theirs could be taken out with one targeted phaser blast. Phasers locked on target, aligned with helm, ready to fire on your mark."

"Looks like they're lucky they got that free shot in before we upped our shielding," Riker said grimly. "David, meet Goliath. And Goliath is not happy. Hold fire, for now. Hail them, Mr. Kim."

"Opening channel sir. They're responding."

The face staring at them from the view screen was humanoid in shape and basic configuration: two eyes, nose, ears, mouth. But that was where the similarities ended. The alien was small, about the size of a human adolescent, with grayish-brown skin that appeared mottled and flaking – unhealthy looking, although of course there was no standard by which they could judge these things. Tom was reminded of the Cataati; there was something pathetic, defeated about this creature, the way he held his head, his body. His (her?) eyes were large and unblinking; the nostrils and ears were vertical slits, and the mouth resembled an insect's mandibles. Sure enough, when the alien started speaking, the sound was a series of rapid clicking noises.

It took the universal translator a few seconds to catch up to the new and unfamiliar language. When it did, the alien's words came out clearly meant as a challenge, but were delivered by the computer's voice, which was designed to pick up inflection as much as phrasing, in a tone that suggested something much closer to fear than bluster. Some of the words the translator chose were offered as alternatives; they would be until it had catalogued sufficient vocabulary and information about the alien language's use of metaphor and imagery to make appropriate choices.

"This is the vessel Ul'k'Nar of the K'rikian defense/attack force. You have entered disputed/at war and dangerous/exploding space without permission. Leave or we will kill/disable." The translator picked a male voice; it was usually correct in its assessment, so for the time being they would consider the alien to be a "him".

Riker stood up, deliberately drawing himself up to his full height. The alien twitched visibly at the sight. The Captain chose simple words, allowing the translator to be as unambiguous as possible in the other direction.

"This is Captain William Riker of the Federation Starship Enterprise. We are on a peaceful mission of exploration. We have no part in any dispute here, and we mean you no harm. But if you fire on us again we will be forced to respond. You will by now have seen that our weapons are far superior to your own, and that yours no longer have an effect on our ship. We would prefer peaceful discussion. The choice is yours."

He motioned to mute outgoing voice transmission, as the alien turned and commenced excited clicking discussions with someone outside viewing range. The translator caught snatches: "superior/better … not like light/bright threats … different … help/ally … possible …"

Will looked to Deanna, who confirmed what even an unknown and alien body language had already betrayed to the experienced watcher: "He's afraid. Of us, and of whatever or whoever they thought we might be helping. I sense no duplicity or hidden agenda, only the need to defend himself and his people from a perceived threat. Their fear seems connected with an image of a bright light … like the one we witnessed earlier today."

Riker nodded his thanks and signaled a reopening of the comm line just as the alien turned back to the screen.

"We are prepared to learn/see you. We will visit your ship. We will be three. No weapons."

Riker smiled. "That will be fine. We will bring you here with a machine called a transporter." He closed the comm link briefly at a gesture from Tom, looking questioningly at his Number One.

"Captain, suggest we beam them to Transporter Room One rather than the bridge, and make them walk here. It won't hurt to impress them with the size of the ship." Riker grinned, and nodded his assent.

Tom rose instantly and headed off the bridge, waving Jorak to come along with him. The Vulcan called for an additional security detail to join them as they entered the turbolift – Lieutenant Ayala and Crewman Dall, the tallest members of his staff. Tom smiled his approval at the choice, recalling his own first encounter with the towering Hirogen. He almost felt sorry for the small beings they were about to meet.

Riker turned back to the screen. "Show us who will come so we can lock onto them." The alien waved, and two figures similar to his own appeared beside him, one smaller and slighter, with eyes more almond-shaped than round – a female?

A signal from Transporter Room One indicated the room was secure; bridge control transmitted the coordinates of the three aliens on the view screen.

"Energize."


	6. Visitors

" _These … K'rikians. When you invited them onboard you already knew they were not warp capable. Why did you decide to initiate contact?"_

 _Riker groaned and closed his eyes, even as Stan clasped his arm in warning to quiet him. Two of the Commissioners stirred in their seats and exchanged looks; one whispered to the other, who smiled grimly and nodded. The third took notes on a PADD._

 _Tom took a deep breath, composed himself as best he could, and responded._

" _Talking to them seemed preferable to killing them, in the very best tradition of Starfleet, Your Honour. Also I believe you could call their opening shot an 'initiation of contact' on their part. Under these circumstances, and on the basis of reciprocity, even the Prime Directive permits contact. Sir. We followed protocol. To the letter."_

" _You are in absolutely no position to lecture me on the Prime Directive, young man, remember that. Counsel, advise your client to tone down the attitude. Continue, Mr. Paris, and watch yourself. You too, Captain Riker."_

.....

 

The K'rikians enormous eyes, if anything, grew larger as they took in the size of the bridge and its occupants, the guests having already been thoroughly intimidated by the height of their 'welcoming committee'. Tom quickly understood why the translator had had difficulty choosing between "seeing" and "learning"; to the K'rikians, the two activities were clearly one and the same. Their heads darted back and forth in a lizard-like motion at all the unfamiliar sights.

Thanks to the polite and simple conversation Tom had initiated with their leader during the long – slightly more circuitous than strictly necessary – walk to the bridge, the translator had stored additional vocabulary, and was forced to provide optional translations only very occasionally anymore. Conversation always got easier with acquaintance.

The alien guests relaxed marginally when invited to sit down at the conference table, where their relatively long torsos brought them into a more reasonable position vis à vis their taller hosts; the dangling legs were discreetly hidden under the table.

After exchanging polite words of welcome with their hosts – even this close to the galactic core, the basic precepts of diplomacy seemed to be the same – the aliens were offered, and accepted glasses of water. They did so with an elaborate and graceful display of hand gestures that suggested the scarcity of the substance on their home planet, or at the very least on their ship. The female stared at her glass with something akin to reverence before taking a tiny, delicate sip.

The K'rikians' story - told to the Captain, the First Officer and the counselor, while the two security officers stood silently and impassively by the doors - was simple, and filled with pain.

To hear their leader, C'ro'Tak, speak, theirs was a peaceful race; without warp capability – of which they had no knowledge, and their hosts did not inquire - their interest in exploration had been limited to worlds close at hand. They knew of no other race like themselves in the Trifid, but over thousands of years they had successfully settled across a small cluster of stars in the southern part of the Trifid - called "the Cloud" by the K'rikians - ten worlds in total. Even as these worlds developed their separate and distinct cultures, they retained their ancestral bonds and closeness. Trade between them flourished, as did political and personal relations. Their system of governance was not unlike a small version of the Federation, and was referred to by the universal translator – somewhat intriguingly, Tom thought, given Earth's own history –as 'the Commonwealth'.

Then, C'ro'Tak explained, the lights appeared in the sky. Beloved at first for their beauty, regarded as bringing luck when seen bursting forth and streaking across the purple sky, they soon became feared as one by one, the K'rikian worlds became sick, diseased. Three had died already; two more were dying. People, animals, plants were succumbing to what the K'rikians called "the wasting diseases". Plants withered; childhood sicknesses that used to be harmless quickly turned lethal, and spread with unprecedented speed. Food and water became contaminated, animals died. Their skin had not always been mottled; that too was a consequence of the disease that fell from the skies like a whisper in the night, like the wisps of the nebula, bathed in beautiful light.

Tom felt his throat go dry at the unbidden memories of the planet where Earth's own Friendship One probe had wrought such unintended yet global havoc. He did not need to see one of the K'rikian worlds to understand their pain. He had been in a place like theirs, met people like them, delivered one of their deformed children; felt silent death blowing in on the evening breeze.

Every time one of the bright lights appeared, it became worse. Scientists had projected within a few hundred years all ten K'rikian systems would become uninhabitable. Religious leaders were starting to spread the belief that the lights were demons, sent to punish the K'rikians for the presumption of venturing beyond their home world. One of the worlds had already broken out into civil war, victim to lethal battles between the rational but helpless scientists and community leaders, and the forces of superstition that insisted on finding solace in doom.

Desperate to bring an end to the dying, the Commonwealth had created the Defense Force, of which the Ul'K'Nar was the largest, the flagship vessel, now the farthest from home. Tom, Deanna and Riker exchanged glances at that. Given the distances involved and the fleet's limited propulsion systems, those volunteering for the expedition knew they would never see their homes again; nonetheless they had set out, beyond the limits of their homes, determined to find the cause of their worlds' destruction and, if possible, end it.

They also understood very clearly that flying towards the light demons that were destroying their worlds would destroy them even sooner. C'ro'Tak's companions unconsciously touched their faces at this, numbing fingers feeling for skin that was once smooth, finding flakes, cracks, and craters. And still the ships were sent out, and still the volunteers, desperate to save their loved ones, kept coming.

What their little armada had found, after years of searching and studying, confirmed what the Enterprise's crew had already begun to surmise: There was a connection between the emergence of the deadly lights and the crystal known to the Federation as dilithium. Asteroids and planetoids rich in the mineral were possible birthplaces for the light beings, and so the Defense Force had set out to systematically destroy them all. They would try and blast them apart from space, and if that did not succeed, leave cloaked charges inside the caves where the crystals grew, waiting to be activated by sudden changes in energy levels. The demons were vulnerable during their birth, before they were fully formed and capable of flying through space.

They were also at their most deadly when they first blazed into light.

"We have seen some of the places where you have been," Riker said, looking at his First Officer, who involuntarily took in a deep breath to test his still-aching ribs and gave a rueful half-smile. When they had originally checked the asteroids for 'mining activity', the kind done by the K'rikians was not exactly what they had had in mind. They would have to go over their readings again, to determine exactly what might have set off the K'rikian charge; he suspected it was the changing energy signature of the alien he had seen starting to glow, rather than the presence of the away team.

In the meantime, Tom figured that keeping his mouth shut about almost dying at their guests' hands was probably the Right Thing To Do; he could always play the guilt card later, if he had to. He could not, however, help wondering about the other victim of the K'rikians' booby trap. "Has destroying them … helped?"

C'ro'Tak's nostril slits flared a little at Tom's question, a gesture his hosts had come to interpret as a smile. His tone carried a sense of pride that did not require the services of the translator.

"Yes, it has. Where we have mined their possible birthplaces, there have been no new lights. It may take us a hundred years more, but eventually we will drive them out of the Cloud. And if only one of our worlds survives by then, it will be enough."

The Enterprise had stood between them and their next target, he explained, and while they were contemplating what to do about the clearly superior vessel, a 'light birth' had occurred. More ominously, their sensors, trained to detect dilithium, had discovered a quantity onboard the big ship – as well as an energy signature not unlike that of the light demons.

Riker and Tom exchanged glances; Deanna stirred in her seat. _The Enterprise's warp core._ Harry and B'Elanna had been right about the similarities. For now, all three officers knew that the Prime Directive applied, specifically what Tom liked to call "sub-rule one": Do not introduce non-warp capable civilizations to the Holy Grail of space travel. Tom never had had much use for the Prime Directive; it had been his father's personal mantra when he grew up, and in Tom's view more often than not was just an excuse for bureaucrats to fiddle while Rome was burning. But even he agreed with the restrictions on spreading warp technology.

Not unreasonably, the K'rikians had assumed the Enterprise had been sent to disrupt their campaign against the light beings, maybe was even allied with them, and had acted accordingly. Out of desperation, in what they considered to be self-defense, and despite the fact that the other ship clearly possessed superior firepower. Their only real defense was their limited cloaking technology, little better than refractive shielding, but even that, when it came to hiding something as large as a ship, had to rely on assistance from the local EM disturbances to be effective. Most problematically, Tom surmised, their limited shielding was not impervious to ambient radiation.

Silence reigned in the boardroom after C'ro'Tak's recital. Deanna, who was feeling their guests' distress most acutely, was hard pressed to keep her air of professional detachment. After a few moments' silence, Tom leaned over to Riker and whispered in his ear. Riker nodded, and Tom spoke.

"We have some … familiarity with diseases like that affecting your crew. If you allow us, we may be able to help," he said softly.

C'ro'Tak's nostrils flared, just a little. "Thank you," he said, "you are very kind. But unless you can help all my people, we must decline. Our suffering is theirs, and theirs, ours. Only by remembering what we are fighting for can we continue our work in the way that we must."

He rose with as much grace and dignity as he could, and bowed. "We must take our leave now, Captain Riker. There is much to do. We will ensure that our ships know you present no threat, and would request that you, in turn, not interfere with our task."

Riker solemnly agreed. He was inherently opposed to mining, which by its nature – and as the away team had found – was indiscriminate in whom it destroyed. Unexploded ordnance, remnants of a war now silenced, still rendered whole planets in the DMZ uninhabitable, and it would take decades to restore them before they would be safe for fields to be worked and children to play.

But the Prime Directive clearly applied and there was not much more they could do under the circumstances. Moreover, he was keen to pass what hey had learned to his mission specialists for study and analysis. He gestured to Tom to escort the K'rikians back to the transporter room, security officers in tow.

On their way, Tom mulled over the K'rikians unwillingness to accept help – there was something terribly familiar in their stubborn pride, and it tweaked his love of a challenge. They may not accept medical help, but who could turn down a drink of water? He hit his comm badge. "Paris to Supplies. Please replicate three 1,000 litre vats of water and materialize on pads one, two and three of Transporter Room One for onward transmission."

Tom turned to C'ro'Tak, bowing politely in his finest approximation of diplomatic deference. "It is our people's custom to allow our guests to leave only after they accept a gift." Ignoring Ayala's ironically raised eyebrow, he added, "Please accept what we present as a gesture of our friendship, and a reminder of our hospitality."

The alien captain visibly swallowed when their little party arrived in the transporter room and he saw what they would be given, but apparently he was sufficiently well versed in the dictates of courtesy not to protest. Or maybe he was just thirsty? It didn't matter; Tom was just pleased that the gift would be accepted.

He sent a triumphant look towards Ayala, who as usual remained utterly impassive at what he had overheard in the briefing room and what was happening now – standing in classic at-ease position, left hand ever so casually draped over the holster of his phaser. One day, Tom swore to himself, he'd get the man drunk and would make him tell what he really thought about … something, anything. Even on Voyager, Ayala had always hovered on the margins of momentous and exciting events, ready with his phaser or a fist at just the right time, but never letting on to what he thought with even as much as a grunt. Tom Paris, a natural-born commenter and raconteur, found the man's silence to be bordering on the freakish.

C'ro'Tak climbed on to the platform, bowed to Tom wordlessly and touched his forehead with the palm of his hand. Tom replicated the gesture, silently praying to the God that looked after pilots-unaccountably-turned-diplomats that he wasn't breaching a hundred years of K'rikian protocol in doing so. He felt no small degree of relief when the familiar ring of the transporter took the three aliens and the Tom Paris version of a reverse hostess gift away and into space.

He thanked Ayala politely, dismissing him for the night. Failing for the umpteen-thousandth time to elicit any kind of verbal response from the man - the nod he received back was almost like an epic poem, coming from the least loquacious individual he had ever met - Tom hit his comm badge.

"Paris to Riker. Unless you need me right away, I'll just swing by the safe zone for a few minutes before coming back to the Bridge."

He could hear the smile in the Captain's answer. "Acknowledged, Commander. Say goodnight to the little one for me."

.....

 

Tom bounded down the hall and entered the airlock that led to the radiation safe zone, now more than ever thankful for the foresight that had led them to establish it for the children. None of them had come down with the Vulcan measles, and hopefully, none would. Out of an abundance of caution the Doc had now equipped the airlock with a sterilizer. Tom waited the requisite five seconds to be disinfected and entered.

The sight that greeted him was as far removed from the order and professionalism of the bridge as Earth was from the Delta Quadrant. Colourful toys, PADDs, half-build forts, pillows and abandoned 'science experiments' (or leftover sandwiches?) were strewn about in the main play area set aside for the younger children. Libby Kim was trying her best to straighten out with the help of some of the older children, but Tom could tell by the wry grin on her face that it was a hopeless task; the mess would be right back the minute the first of the little ones got up. His daughter was probably one of the worst offenders, if the status of his and B'Elanna's quarters was any indication.

"Hey Libby," he said. "Her ladyship still awake?"

"Oh hi, Tom. Yes, I think so. We just put the little ones down a few minutes ago. She's had a pretty good day, I think, except for dinnertime. She complained about the chicken nuggets and kept asking for pizza. Where'd she get that from, you figure?"

"I wouldn't want to hazard a guess." Tom grinned at his best friend's wife as he headed for the room set aside as a sleeping area for the smaller children. He spotted Miral's bed easily; B'Elanna had brought it and her starship mobile from their quarters to give their daughter a little piece of home while she was staying in the safe zone.

"Daddy!" Miral popped up as soon as he approached; her Klingon senses, even as genetically diluted as they were, had recognized his footfall - and quite possibly his scent - well before he arrived beside her crib. She held up her arms to be picked up, and hugged him fiercely as he ruffled her hair and blew into her ear.

"Hey, munchkin. I came to say goodnight. Still having a nice camp-out with the other kids?" She nodded vigorously. Libby and the other teachers had pulled out all the stops to ensure that the children were not only comfortable, but also well entertained; regular visits reassured the littlest ones that their parents had not forgotten about them.

"Can I have a story, Daddy?" Tom smiled and reached for the PADD behind Miral's crib. "Of course you can. That's why I'm here." "Pooh?" He dabbed her on the nose with his finger. "Wouldn't dream of reading you anything else. And guess what? Here's a chapter that's a bit like where the Enterprise is right now. It's called 'In Which Piglet Is Entirely Surrounded By Water'."

As Tom read, he noticed a few other heads popping up in the beds around Miral's, listening intently. Being read to by his own father was the most treasured memory of his childhood, and he found it astonishing how few parents seemed to take the time.

"Mommy came and said 'night already," Miral informed him sleepily after he finished. "Can I have pizza tomorrow, Daddy?" Tom smiled and nodded. "I'll tell Libby and Nurse Ogawa that you can replicate some pizza for lunch, but do try some of the other food, okay?" "Mmmh. 'Kay. Love you, Daddy."

"Love you too, sweetie."

Tom stroked his daughter's cheek with his finger, watching her bright-blue eyes grow darker and begin to close. He still found it hard to believe sometimes that this little being was the result of his and B'Elanna's love, and just how much of a focus of their life she had become. He could not imagine his existence without her.

Unbidden, Tom's mind flashed to the moment in the dilithium cave when he had felt himself being crushed by the falling rocks. The regret that he would not be there for his daughter, would not see her grow up, would miss all the important milestones she had yet to pass in her young life.

Just how many lives did he have left before the odds would catch up with him? How many more times could he cheat death? Dark thoughts, quickly banished behind the walls where Tom Paris liked to keep these things, to be held at bay until a time when he would be forced to stand exposed before the truth of his feelings and his fears. His daughter seemed to bring those walls down more easily than he had ever thought possible.

Tom shivered slightly, bent down and kissed Miral on the forehead. She smacked her lips a little and burrowed deeper into her pillow, clutching B'Elanna's old stuffed targ, Toby, and breathing in her mother's comforting scent.

He quietly left the nursery, winking and waving at some of the other children who were still awake. The First Officer was a familiar figure to all of them, and as he re-entered the main area, some of the older ones made a passable effort at coming to attention as he passed. He nodded solemnly at those, acknowledging their respect in equal measure, before giving Libby a quick goodnight hug and a peck on the cheek and informing her that it would be fine to feed a certain voracious quarter-Klingon pizza – again. He smiled a heartfelt 'thank you' to her and Ogawa before entering the airlock.

As he headed back to the bridge Tom hoped the Captain would not keep him long. He and B'Elanna had not had much time together in the last few days, and with his physical condition finally having returned to normal, he was planning a few ways in which they could take advantage of what was essentially a free baby-sitting service. His lips curved in an anticipatory smile. An evening off would be nice.

.....

 

Spooned around each other, sleeping deeply and peacefully in the afterglow of activities that had been as strenuous as they had been pleasurable, Tom and B'Elanna woke at the same time, to an overwhelming sense of wrongness. His pilot's instincts would still tell him when the engines dropped out of warp, regardless of where he was on the ship; her own engineer's senses felt the loss of her engines' hum as others might the beating of a loved one's heart.

For both of them, the sudden silence of the warp drive screamed an alert louder than any klaxon, and they were out of their bed, into their uniforms and out the door in under a minute. No words were necessary; there had been too many moments like this in their lives. Words would come later, when they had information. Before the turbolift deposited them at their respective destinations, they exchanged a look of guilty relief that there was no need to arrange for someone to look after Miral this night, then B'Elanna tore down the hall towards engineering while Tom stayed on the lift to head for the bridge.

"Report!" he barked as he entered the bridge, noting the Captain had not yet arrived. Gamma shift was on, and the Lieutenant who had the bridge practically jumped out of his chair at the sound of the XO's voice. Sue Henley, who had come aboard the Enterprise some six months earlier at Tom's recommendation to join O'Reilly's conn staff, turned to him, relief at his presence evident in her eyes.

"Warp drive went off-line three minutes ago, sir. Cause unknown. We still have impulse. Go to red alert, sir?"

"No, maintaining yellow will do for now." Tom hit his comm badge. "Paris to engineering," he called out. "Talk to me, B'Elanna!"

"We seem to have suffered a sudden drop – make that a complete loss – of the matter-antimatter exchange in the dilithium matrix. The warp core is completely … dead."

"Any chance of a breach?"

"No, none that I can see. The exchange just … stopped, but there is no sign of an overload in the gravimetric manifold. Thank Kahless for that. Obviously we'll be working on trying to restore the reaction, but until we find out what stopped it, it may not be that easy. For now we may be dead in space, but at least we're not in any danger from the core. Will report back when we know more. Torres out."

Will Riker had arrived on the bridge during this exchange, his eyes still a little bleary with sleep but grimly determined to find out what was wrong with his ship, and who had caused it. Tom immediately relinquished the command chair and headed for the helm, tapping the console as Henley gave him the necessary space. He cursed even as his fingers danced over the controls, finally slamming the flat surface in frustration.

"Dead as the proverbial duck," he confirmed, patting Henley's shoulder in silent apology for the invasion of her space as he headed back towards the Captain. The remainder of the senior staff was filtering in, Jorak immediately relieving the ensign in charge of tactical during Gamma shift. He shook his head at the Captain's expectant looks. No answers from the external sensors. What a surprise, his raised eyebrow seemed to say.

Harry Kim was just taking his station, uniform in slight disarray, when his wife's voice came over the intercom from the safe zone. He looked up instantly; Libby never commed the bridge directly.

And yet, it was unmistakably her voice. Choking, half sobbing, hanging by a thread.

"The children … they're gone … all of them."


	7. Into the Night

" _So, Mr. Paris, would it be fair to say you were emotionally compromised during this part of the mission?"_

" _Excuse me?"_

" _Come now, Commander. Your own daughter had disappeared, likely abducted by hostile aliens. Your godson, too. You had no idea where they were, whether they were alive or not, or how to get them back. So I repeat. Were you, or were you not, emotionally compromised when you decided to engage the aliens?"_

" _If you are asking me whether I was unable to remain in a position of command, the answer is no. Not only did I continue to be in full possession of my faculties, as a result of the training I received just before becoming First Officer on the Enterprise and my practical experience in the Delta Quadrant, I was also the most qualified person on board to command an extraction mission. In order to rescue all the children, including my daughter, I could not afford to be 'emotionally compromised'. And I was not._

" _If you are asking me whether I can be held responsible for any communications I initiated, any decisions I made after the children disappeared, the answer is yes, absolutely. I have never been more rational, clearer, or more deliberate about anything I have ever done in my life than the actions I took in the Trifid._

" _If you are asking me whether I was personally affected by what had happened … Yes, yes, of course I was. I am human. My daughter's disappearance was the most horrific, gut-wrenching, devastating thing that ever happened to me. And believe me, there have been lot of horrific, gut-wrenching and devastating events in my life._

" _But with all due respect, Your Honour, I am a Starfleet officer. I come from a very long line of Starfleet officers. Members of my family, including myself, have variously battled the Xindi, the Klingons, the Romulans, the Cardassians, the Dominion and the Borg, without one of them ever being 'emotionally compromised' about command decisions._

" _While I served in the Delta Quadrant, my wife was assimilated by the Borg, abducted by hostile aliens, lost in space and Kahless knows what else. And I continued to perform my duties, often better under that pressure than at other times._

" _Yes, I am a husband and a father in addition to being a Starfleet officer. And I never, ever forget that. Not for one nanosecond. Of course I am concerned for my family's safety and of course I am anxious when they are in danger. As I said, I'm human. But their very existence grounds me and makes me who I am as a Starfleet Officer. My daughter has taught me what is most valuable, what is most precious, and what must be protected. That understanding is not an 'emotional compromise'. It is who I am, and it dictates how I act. How I will act, always, and every time._

" _I apologize for the length of this explanation. But I trust I have made myself clear."_

 _....._

 _  
_

Miral.

Like a spear of ice, the thought ripped through his heart and through every fibre of his being.

Miral.

Cheerful, bubbly, fierce, affectionate, stubborn, smart, beautiful, little Miral. His daughter. B'Elanna's joy. Their love.

Gone.

Tom hit his comm badge, his voice a bare croak. "Paris to Torres. Please come to the bridge. Now."

Tom's eyes found Harry's, whose baby son, little Tommy, was gone too. Harry stood dumbstruck, as pale as Tom had ever seen him; his hands were shaking at the ops console as the echo of Libby's distraught voice continued to ring in his ears.

Jorak, by contrast, was already tearing off the bridge and into the turbolift, two of his gamma shift officers hard on his heels, and calling for an additional security detail to join him in the safe zone, on the double. There had been no intruder alert, no alien life forms recorded, and the ship's shields had been up and apparently uncompromised since the K'rikians were transported back to their vessel.

Even though the computer had confirmed the children's absence, given the distorted sensor readings in the Trifid the possibility that they were still onboard could not be completely ruled out, and an investigation in the cause of their disappearance was best started where they had last been seen.

Fear and panic wouldn't help find Miral and the others. Tom's breath was starting to come steadier.

 _Think, Paris, think. You're a Starfleet Officer, goddammit. Think. The warp core silence. The children's disappearance. Must be a connection. What?_

Tom closed his eyes as he briefly felt his Captain's comforting hand on his shoulder. For a hallucinatory moment he felt a smaller, warmer hand there, heard a gravelly, calming voice in his mind.

 _Calm down, Tom. We will get through this. Trust. Believe. Think. Look forward. There is a way. We'll find it._

His eyes flew open as B'Elanna strode onto the bridge, puzzlement in her eyes, then concern as she took in his ashen face. Harry turned to her, said a few words. As in slow motion, Tom watched her listen, watched her hand fly to her mouth to stifle a cry.

He went over to her, steadied her and stilled her panting breath, and looked over her head at Harry, whose hands were still gripping the console of the ops station - unmoving, frozen, his breath coming in shallow rasps now. By contrast, the Captain's fingers were flying over the console beside his chair like those of a man possessed, as he called out for Counselor Troi to go to the safe zone and assist the teachers. They would need her help, as would the parents that would come there.

 _Time to do_.

Tom took his hands off B'Elanna's shoulders. He spoke sharply, pitching his voice at Harry - a commanding voice he dimly, and with no small amount of surprise, recognized as his father's. "Harry. _Lieutenant Kim_. What time did the warp core go off line, and what other energy readings do we have for that time? _Report._ "

B'Elanna hissed out a breath at his tone and raised her head. Staring at her mate's face, watching the grim determination in his eyes, she blinked a few times then nodded, her own resolve returning. She headed for the bridge engineering station.

There would be time later to be paralyzed, to scream in anguish or in rage.

 _They were Starfleet officers, and their ship had been attacked. Members of their crew had disappeared and were in danger._

Harry shook his head as if to clear it. He looked briefly to the turbolift, fighting an impulse to seek out Libby. In a slightly softer tone, Tom said, "We need you here, Harry. Go to work. Help us find Tommy and Miral and the others." Harry reached for the console, hesitated again.

There was only one thing to do, and Tom knew he would hate himself for it later even as he knew it was necessary now. Tom called for Ensign Carsons to relieve Harry at Ops, and sent him to join the team investigating the children's disappearance in the safe zone. Where he would find Libby, and hopefully get his strength back.

Thirty minutes later, the briefing room was tense, and more crowded than usual. One after the other, department heads reported what they had found – relevant or not, that would be sorted out later. Ops was represented by Carsons.

Those parents who wished it had been allowed to patch into the meeting - via one-way comm link - at Deanna's request. She had notified each parent, and knew what they needed more than anything was information.

"Sitrep?" Riker asked curtly. One by one, his senior officers delivered what they knew, what was knowable.

The shields had apparently not been breached, but there had been an energy signature similar to that detected when the light being emerged. First outside the hull, then on the inside of the ship on several decks. It was conceivable that whatever it was, if it was one of the light beings, had penetrated the shield by momentarily harmonizing with its frequencies.

No alarms had been set off, but a crewmember stumbling home from his lover's quarters had reported a strange light phenomenon on Deck 10. The deck where the children's safe zone was located.

The warp core had gone off line at 0335 hours, less than halfway through Gamma shift. Cause still unknown; at best, B'Elanna said, it could be described as the dilithium crystals' energy matrix going dead, just after the Gamma shift supervisor in Engineering had seen a bluish-white flash of light. Matter-anti-matter conversion had stopped at that time. Lacking catalytic reaction, the warp core had simply ceased to pulse. There was no evident or even theoretical cause that would explain the possible failure of the inert catalysts; there was no detectable change in the crystals themselves and insertion of new ones had had no effect. Environmental sensors in Engineering had recorded similar energy readings to those on Deck 10, with minute divergences.

The children had vanished sometime between 0337 and 0339 hours. Libby Kim had woken up when she heard little Tommy crying, but thought she would wait before going to him as he was supposed to learn to sleep through the night. She was startled into checking up on him when his crying stopped abruptly, in mid-breath. At that time, she noticed all the cribs were empty, including the beds in the room where the older children slept. The only remaining people in the safe zone were herself, Nurse Ogawa and two other teachers who were spending the night there for additional adult support. Libby had notified the bridge of the disappearance at 0341 hours.

Ops had established that the K'rikian ship was over two million kilometers away – no doubt mining more asteroids with their insidious charges - and there was no physical or sensor-based indication their erstwhile guests were in any way involved. There were several asteroids in the vicinity, of the same type as the one that had been the site of the light being's emergence; none showed any life signs present, but sensor readings had repeatedly proven unreliable and the presence of light beings could not be excluded.

Counselor Troi's empathic receptors were so overpowered by the fears and despair of the affected parents onboard that she was unable to project and deploy them outside the ship.

"Analysis? Oh, never mind. Hell, I'll take _speculation_ at this point. Anything? Anyone?" Riker asked, fatigue that has nothing to do with the early hour now etched across his face.

Jorak looked around the room and, with no one else ready to speak, took the floor, his delivery as usual flat and crisp. "Events and what energy signatures we can detect are consistent with at least one, probably two of the light beings entering the Enterprise and taking the children. Their motive is unknown, but it is notable that the timing closely followed the Enterprise's first contact with the K'rikians, with whom they are presently in conflict. Those are facts. It is logical to assume that the light beings may be concerned that we have taken sides in the conflict and have taken the children hostage to prevent our involvement, or to force another course of action." Nodding around the table confirmed that his logic made sense to those present.

"Options?"

Tom spoke up. "I'd like to take both Flyers out for a recce of the nearest asteroids, starting with those with the highest concentration of dilithium. Assuming the shuttle sensors aren't going to be any better use than the ship's, I would like Counselor Troi to come along, to see if her empathic senses can provide us with some direction. I appreciate that she may also be needed onboard, Captain, but I do believe her presence would be more useful on the away team if we want to find anything."

He stopped, and looked at the Captain with a slight challenge in his eyes. "It may be a fishing expedition, sir, but unless and until our luminescent visitors send us a ransom note, it's better than sitting around."

Riker nodded. "Agreed. Go ahead Commander. Assemble two away teams, under your command. And yes, Deanna, please join Tom. I'll contact the K'rikians to see if they have any information that could be useful."

Tom turned to B'Elanna. "You said something earlier, that the beings may be 'related to your warp core'. Assuming that's the case, is there anything we could use to … I don't know, slow them down or turn them off, without causing something akin to a breach?"

.....

 

Dressed in the black jumpsuits designed for kinetic ground operations, the two away teams gathered in the main shuttle bay where the two Delta Flyer model shuttlecraft were sitting side by side, gleaming in the starlight that shone through the force field of the open bay. The jumpsuits had been impregnated with extra radiation shielding, and each team member was equipped with night vision goggles, auxiliary breathing apparatus and locator and comms devices. In addition, everyone carried tricorders and a regenerative phaser; a transport pattern enhancer rounded out the hardware.

Tom had slung his TR-116 rifle over his shoulder for good measure; the weapon was not official Starfleet issue but had become a clandestine favourite at the James T. Kirk Centre where he had taken his advanced tactical and command training. It had been the first thing he had built for himself when he came onboard the Enterprise, over B'Elanna's taunts about 'boys and their toys'. Tom had no idea whether it would have any effect on the energy beings – in fact he rather doubted it - but it was the best thing he could think of for blasting through rock without causing a hailstorm of fragments.

Ordinarily, Tom would have felt like a bit of a fraud in the commando outfit, even vaguely ridiculous, and would not have been afraid to make snide comments about the pretensions of the "men in black". Dreaming of being a member of the Special Operating Forces had never been his thing, even when he was a boy. When it came to deploying lethal force he preferred the purity, honesty and elegance of combat flying; by comparison, SOF work could be messy.

That said, he had participated in a number of undercover ops, extractions and recces into hostile territory while on Voyager – infiltrating the Kazon, entering Borg vessels, coming for the Captain in the Mokra prison; the advanced tactical training at the Kirk Centre had certainly prepared him for commanding such missions, even if he had not trained to be an actual commando. Most recently, the mission in the Neutral Zone had been, if not an unqualified success from his own perspective, certainly confirmation of his ability to keep a cool head despite relentless internal pressure. As a result, no doubts assailed him now; he was utterly focused on the task before him, cold and determined.

Tom was the only member of the away teams with a child missing. His lifelong habit of suppressing and compartmentalizing his emotions was, for once, more boon than baggage, and he considered himself fit for duty. Deanna Troi, in a very private exchange, at his own request, had validated his confidence.

Harry, on the other hand … His best friend was as fierce and fearless in battle as anyone he had ever seen, under the most extraordinary pressures, and Tom owed his life to Harry's courage several times over. But he had never seen him so utterly incapacitated as he had been when he first heard Libby's breathless cry for help and found out that his baby boy had vanished. The First Officer in Tom was concerned that he might, in this one instance, become a liability, and he had forced himself to shut out his instinctive desire to bring his friend and trusted battle companion. Tom knew he would have to explain his call to leave Harry off the team to him at some point; he owed this to his friend as much as the XO did to the Lieutenant. But he was not looking forward to the discussion, and quickly banished the thought from his mind.

With Sue Henley piloting Flyer Two, Tom put Jorak in command of that team. He would fly the other shuttle himself, with Mike Ayala – a competent back-up pilot in addition to being fluent in more dirty and useful fighting techniques than any other of the former Maquis members now serving Starfleet – as his own second.

Jorak's teams was rounded out by Jones from engineering and Bela Zargot, another of his security experts. For his on team, Tom had chosen Vorik – now fully recovered from his bout of the measles and over his embarrassment at having brought it onboard – and Deanna Troi whose presence, bluntly put, he hoped would make up somewhat for their ineffective sensors. That said, Troi would also be an important reassuring presence should they find the children, or find an opportunity to communicate with the aliens.

B'Elanna and her engineers had equipped both teams with portable dampening field generators, complete with phase modulators. She had been overseeing the loading of the equipment herself, and now moved to exchange a few words with Deanna Troi. Although polar opposites in disposition and temperament, the half-Klingon and half-Betazoid had become fast friends since that first meeting in a New Orleans jazz pub, often sharing their views on the male gender in general and the personality quirks of certain commanding officers in particular.

B'Elanna might have been looking for a few words of comfort from the ship's counselor before the latter left the ship, but Tom was not fooled. He knew that his wife's presence in the shuttle bay was a last-ditch effort to convince him to let her take Jones' place.

He understood her frustration at not being part of the mission to find her daughter, and wanted her by his side desperately as much for her engineering skills as for her tenacity in a fight. But given the continuing condition of the Enterprise's warp core, she was needed more on the ship. Yet another unwanted decision, filed away for future, unwanted discussion.

Putting on his best command face, Tom Paris turned to his wife. She recognized the closed look in his eyes immediately. Starfleet regulations were clear: spouses should not report to each other where possible, unless one of them was the Captain. Her direct line of command was therefore normally to Will Riker. But this was Tom's mission, and she knew it - just as she knew what he would say if she asked. Knowing an argument was the last thing he needed before leaving, she sighed in resignation and frustrated acceptance.

"You're not going to change your mind, are you." It was a statement, not a question. Tom shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Fine. But come back. With Miral."

With these simple words, wrenched from her gut as she remembered how her mate had returned from his last away mission and what he was going out to do now, she threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulled him down and kissed him fiercely – spectators be damned. Then, turning on her heels, B'Elanna Torres left the shuttle bay without another look back, ready to unleash her considerable fury on her engines.

Commander Thomas Eugene Paris for his part stood still for a second, collected his thoughts and called the mission.

....

 

The search parameters Jorak and Tom had established for the team were simple. Assuming the light beings were not planning on killing the children – they could have done so onboard, presumably, had they so wished, along with everyone else, and Deanna was adamant she had never sensed any malice in what contact with them she had had - they had to be on one of the asteroids with an oxygen atmosphere. For the aliens, it was likely that dilithium was an important environmental factor.

Finally, it could be assumed that twenty-three children were a challenge to transport for non-corporeal beings - other than a Q, anyway. Tom had dismissed that particular unpleasant thought just as quickly as it had struck him; Q would have come by to gloat by now if he had had anything to do with the disappearance. So, all factors considered, proximity was likely a given; that and the other considerations resulted in a flight plan that would run the two shuttles past some seventeen asteroids.

How he knew that the sixth would be the one, Tom would never learn. Despite his instinctive ability to read people he was not an empath, and no one in his family had ever exhibited so much as the slightest of abilities in the ESP range. But as soon as he saw the jagged, vaguely cigar-shaped object he called out over the comm to the other shuttle. "Jorak, I think we have it. Sending the coordinates. I don't know how but I have a feeling …"

Deanna Troi confirmed his intuition almost immediately. "I sense them. And the children." She gasped in relief. "All of them, I think, although it is hard to be sure with the babies, their thought patters aren't very developed yet. All of them seem to be asleep."

Ayala punched in the short coded message to the Enterprise that confirmed initial contact, together with their coordinates. Tom banked the Flyer behind a neighbouring asteroid, where they would rendezvous with Jorak's. He turned to Deanna.

"What do you get from the aliens, now that we're so close to them?" he asked intently, even as his insides were screaming to hear news about his daughter.

Deanna closed her eyes. "It's indistinct. Their feelings are powerful, but not as … clearly resolved as ours. It's as if they are projecting emotions as colours. The colours are washed out due to the distance, and some I don't even recognize." She remained silent for a few moments.

"Fear. Need." Her eyes opened, but remained unfocused. "Great disquiet, uncertainty."

"Good. A lack of determination on their part will make our job easier." Tom hit his comm badge. "Paris to Jorak. Beam over to Flyer One with Zargot. We'll keep Flyer Two in orbit as a getaway option in case things go south on the surface. Keep Henley and Jones onboard to facilitate evac if needed. I'll take you two and my entire team dirt side. Paris out."

"Acknowledged," came Jorak's voice over the comm.

A few minutes later, he and Ensign Zargot materialized on Tom's ship. A short time afterwards the six officers left the ship and fanned out in pairs, the two Vulcans and the Betazoid carefully shielding their thoughts in the ways developed by races accustomed to telepathic communication. Tom hoped fervently that if he couldn't sense the aliens they couldn't sense him; there was of course no way to be sure.

In the end, the operation was over almost before it began.

Once outside the shuttle, Deanna was quickly able to point to a cavern entrance not unlike the one where the earlier away team had nearly come to grief. Tom suppressed a small shudder as he directed Vorik to place the first set of dampening field generators in a square corresponding to an area Deanna indicated. The team would take the second set inside the cavern.

Moving as silently as they could, they entered the cave, in groups of two in the traditional pattern of advancing, securing an area, letting the next two move ahead. True to Tom's expectations, the path that led down to where a shimmer of light suggested they might find their targets was similar to the layout of the cavern where he had encountered his first light being. He hoped fervently that there would be no mines, but suspected the light beings would have set them off if there had been.

Best not to think of the children, when thinking about mines.

After a few twists and turns, the rocky path opened out into a large chamber.

This time, though, neither Tom nor the others lingered to admire the beauty of the crystals in the large chamber that opened before them. Their attention was drawn instead to two shimmering entities, hovering near the back of the cavern – vaguely humanoid in shape and size, but incorporeal, made of an iridescent blue light that pulsed gently and steadily, thinning into tendrils not unlike old-fashioned neon-lights washed out by fog. The tendrils emanating from each alien curved around and joined the other's, shaping a pale sphere where the Enterprise's children lay, in what appeared to be either a deep sleep or suspended animation.

Rainbow lights where whirling where a humanoid's eyes might be as the beings slowly turned their … faces? … towards the team. They made no motion to intercept the intruders, instead holding tight to keep the children's sphere in place.

Tom suppressed the overwhelming urge to run, to scream for his daughter to hear him and come to him. He did none of these things.

Instead, he balled a fist, digging his gloved fingers deep into his palm to let the pain ground him a little and to summon the commanding officer within, before motioning to Ayala and Zargot. He directed them to set up another dampening field generator, where the path opened into the cavern. That done, he gave the signal to Jorak and Vorik, to use their natural Vulcan strength and speed to sprint forward into the cave and deposit the remaining generators. A flick of one switch, and they all powered up at the same time, those above ground and those inside the cavern.

The effect was instantaneous, and Tom gave silent thanks for B'Elanna's insight. The light emanating from the two aliens dimmed perceptibly, turning to a dull grey, and Deanna Troi gave a gasp as if in pain. The aliens began to convulse even as the force field – if that was what it was – around the children flickered and dissolved.

As the children began to stir, a part of Tom thought that this had been too easy.

Much too easy.

.....

 

"They are in pain. They want us to stop … the machines," Deanna managed, her simple words voicing thoughts that were not her own, her face reflecting a fear she herself did not feel.

Like hell, Tom thought – with far more cruelty than he would have thought himself capable of. _Let them suffer, for what they've done to Harry and Libby, for all the parents_ … But just as soon as these black thoughts were starting to take hold, he recoiled. _No, Paris, that's not who you are. Get a grip on yourself. NOW._

A plan occurred to him, even as he spotted Miral groggily coming to and saw her blue eyes open and turn towards him. Jorak and Zargot had gone over to the children to reassure them, keep them from approaching the aliens.

"Deanna, if you can communicate with the aliens, tell them we'll be happy to talk – _after_ we get the children out. We'll talk all they want, as long as they want, about anything they want. But those dampeners stay on until all the kids are off this fucking rock."

His tone was clipped and cold, and he turned his head slightly so he would not have to see the tears streaming down Deanna Troi's face as she was gripped in the aliens' pain.

Silently, slowly, she nodded. They had agreed.

Tom's breath hissed in relief. "Flyer Two, do you read the children's life signs? Can you transport them out?" " Negative," came Jones' answer. "The dampening fields are doing their job too well. I don't think even the pattern enhancer will help. You'll have to bring them out to the surface."

Tom cursed silently, hesitated for a split second, made his decisions.

"Jorak, you take the rest of the team and the children out to Flyer One and back to the Enterprise. Have the older children help you carry the babies and little ones if they can't walk or are too tired. Deanna and I will stay here and have a chat with our 'friends'. Have Henley and Jones remain in orbit and wait for us until further notice."

"Daddy!" The sleepy little voice shook him to the core. No matter how much he ached to see her, hold her, part of him had hoped that Miral would not recognize him with the protective face plate on, that she would just go with Jorak and the other children – all still half dazed from the stasis field they had been in - and allow him to stay and do what he needed to do until they were all safe. To bring this mission to a successful conclusion, whatever that would be.

"Daddy, where are we? Where's Mommy?"

Tom shut his eyes tightly for a few seconds, flipped his faceplate to rest on top of his head and turned to face his daughter. Squatting down, he stroked a stray curl out of her face and planted a kiss on her forehead.

"Sweetheart, listen to me. Listen real close. I know this is hard to understand, but you have to go with Jorak, back to the Enterprise. Mommy will be waiting for you there. I still have something to do here. I'll see you soon."

"But Daddy, I'm scared! Want to stay here with you!"

Tom's heart broke a little as he took his daughter in his arms. He knew what he had to do. She would not understand, might even hate him for a while.

But she would be safe.

He stood up, and noticed Mike Ayala, who had unexpectedly materialized beside him. The tall security officer, father of two boys - both now at the Academy - looked at him with an unreadable expression in his near-black eyes and held out his arms.

"I'll look after her for you, sir. You can count on me."

The most words Ayala had ever spoken, in Tom's memory. The sweetest he had ever heard. Tom silently nodded his appreciation and his trust and handed his child into the other man's arms.

"There, sweetheart, Mike here will take care of you. I have to stay. I need you to be safe. I love you."

And with those words, Tom Paris, First Officer of the USS Enterprise, dismissed his Lieutenant with another short nod and forcing himself, but failing, to ignore his daughter's desperate cries and outstretched arms, turned on his heels to do his duty.

 


	8. Suffer the Children

" _Yes, the jury may ask questions."_

" _How can you be sure that these … alien beings were telling the truth? How can you know they didn't manipulate you, or make you take decisions that were not yours? They were after all telepaths, and capable of capturing, transporting and silencing twenty-seven children, including a number of adolescents."_

" _I appreciate what you are trying to do, Commissioner. But in Starfleet we are told that 'the First Duty is to the Truth'. I learned that lesson harder than many, but I learned it well._

" _And the truth is, any decisions that I took, and any representations and recommendations that I made to Captain Riker, were my own, made of my own free will. I take full responsibility for my actions. There was no manipulation._

" _Just as importantly, though, I recognize the truth when it is spoken to me, or when I understand something to be true. And it is a very basic truth that made me take the decisions I did in the Trifid:_

" _If you can save the lives of children, it cannot possibly matter whose children they are."_

 _....._

 _  
_

Anxiously waiting for the all-clear signal from Flyer One that would indicate the children were safe, Tom scanned the cavern with a tricorder. The rock face was lined with dilithium crystals, but otherwise bare. A few other trace minerals were present, nothing remarkable; the only instruments present were those the Enterprise team had brought with them. Even the area where the children had been kept in stasis was completely free of any evidence of external manipulation, suggesting that their suspension – and probably their translocation – had been achieved by non-technical means.

Telekinesis? An unknown form of energy field manipulation? Tom had enough experience with unexpected powers to be open to all kinds of answers, from mind control and mass hallucination to Caretaker- or Q-like omnipotence; none of the possibilities appealed.

He scanned the aliens last. The good news was that they emitted no trace of the radiation the Enterprise had detected during the emergence. In fact, the radiation levels in the cave were so low that Tom decided to remove his protective face plate altogether; he had never been a fan of the night-vision overlay, and much preferred looking his opponents in the eye. The inappropriateness of that particular metaphor struck him even as he thought about it, but he managed to shrug it off. It would serve.

Consistent with prior findings by the ship's sensors, the aliens did not register on the tricorder as life forms, not even when he moved the range out of the carbon band. When he flicked the settings to energy readings, however, the tricorder unaccountably tried to default back into engineering mode, until he initiated a bypass. It simply did not seem to want to read the beings as life forms.

He again heard B'Elanna's voice in his head, "You mean, they're related to my warp core?" She hadn't been far off, he concluded – the energy the beings gave off was not unlike the matter-anti-matter reactions one would find in the warp core, with resonance readings coming from the dilithium crystals on the cave walls. Clearly, the crystals were a sympathetic environment the beings thrived on for some reason.

The dampening field generators continued to have a visible effect on the aliens, whose pulsating presence was a fraction of the brightness it had been when the extraction team had entered the cave. They were clearly incapacitated, clearly suffering their equivalent of considerable pain; it was written on Deanna Troi's ashen face as she held on to a rock outcropping, steadying herself against the onslaught from the empathic connection that linked her to the aliens.

But the impact the Enterprise's technology was having on the aliens now did not explain - not to Tom's satisfaction in any event - the ease with which his team had managed to overpower them in the first place. These were, after all, beings capable of entering a starship undetected, silencing its main propulsion system, locating and transporting a select number of its occupants onto this asteroid without anyone noticing or being able to stop them.

It was almost as if they had wanted to be found, wanted to return the children. But why put them all through this anguish? What was the agenda here? None of the answers could be found in physical evidence. There was only one way to get the answer – ask, and hope for the truth.

In the meantime, the aliens' suffering made him deeply uncomfortable, as did the ugly memory of his earlier vindictive enjoyment of it. Tom switched off the useless tricorder, snapped it back into its holster and impatiently hit his comm badge.

"Paris to Jorak. Status?"

"I was just about to comm you, sir. All children are accounted for, healthy and safe onboard Flyer One. We are ready to take off; Lieutenant Ayala is just finishing pre-flight checks." Jorak paused. "We have lift-off sir. Clearing the asteroid's atmosphere. Flyer Two remaining in orbit, ready for you when you are."

"Good. Let me know when you're onboard the Enterprise. We'll be in touch as needed from here." Jorak would know that the absence of a formal sign-off meant that the comm links were to remain open; he would in turn patch the line into the Enterprise's system where it would be monitored to enable an intervention if necessary.

Tom wanted to make sure that whatever transpired, the ship would know instantly. Once the Lumen were no longer subdued it was unlikely that the comm links would be able to transmit clearly, but there was a god chance the Enterprise would know if they were in serious trouble. Tom also knew that Riker would be concerned about his wife – just as B'Elanna would be about him – and that the open link, if things went well, would go a long way to relieve unnecessary pressure on the Captain.

Tom turned to Deanna, raised a questioning eyebrow even as he silently pointed to his comm badge. She nodded, touched it, opened the link. Yes, she was ready.

Tom crouched down by one of the dampening field generators, and disrupted the link with a determined click. Immediately, the two light beings shuddered, seemed to expand and contract in a curious approximation of a human stretching after the lifting of a heavy burden. Their luminescence quickly returned to its previous levels. Deanna, too, heaved a sigh of relief, and the colour returned to her face.

Tom straightened himself to his full height – fortunately the cave ceiling was sufficient to accommodate it - and addressed the beings directly. He suspected he would most likely have to speak through Deanna as intermediary, but that did not have to mean loss of immediate contact. It would be easy enough to determine whether they could understand him, even if it was already pretty clear to him that he could not receive any messages directly from them.

Tom's voice rung through the cave, for the second time that day in what still surprised him as a frighteningly close approximation of his father's sharpest command tone.

"Explain yourselves. Why did you attack our ship and abduct our children?"

Deanna gasped a little in surprise at the response she received, and the manner in which it was given.

"They understand you, I can feel it, although whether it's direct or through me I can't tell. But they understand your question. The answer though … they think … it's hard to explain. Colours. They think … in colours, somehow. I can feel them in my mind, but it may be hard to translate into words. I'll try."

She stopped, unsure of herself, listening inwardly. "They say it would be easier if one of them could touch me." She looked at Tom for permission, who in turn cast her a questioning glance. "I don't get a sense of threat, or duplicity. Yes, I'm willing to do it."

Tom had a near-absolute faith in Deanna Troi's abilities; despite the warm and deceptively soft exterior she was one of the toughest officers he knew. And so he nodded slowly, despite the deep sense of unease he always felt when exposing someone under his command to a risk he could neither share nor control. This was too important to say 'no' - he knew that with absolute clarity, but the decision, his responsibility for her life, made him clench his jaw in apprehension regardless of Deanna's consent and apparent confidence.

Immediately one of the light beings floated over to Deanna. A delicate tendril extended from its glowing body, reaching towards her, hesitating. The half-Betazoid hesitated only for a second, then extended her hand in welcome. The glowing tendril wrapped itself around her finger, and for a moment Tom was absurdly reminded of a famous painting he had seen as a teenager, on the ceiling of the restored Sistine chapel in Rome. The original had been lost to the devastation of the Eugenics war, but even the replica had exuded a power that affected him deeply. While most of his classmates had giggled, red-faced, at the nakedness of the central figure, he remembered being overwhelmed by what he thought the artist had been trying to convey: The creation of life? The granting of knowledge?

At the touch of the being's pulsating essence, Deanna's black Betazoid eyes opened wide in an expression of surprise and amazement. A delighted smile briefly touched her lips. Rainbows of crystalline hues swirled through her mind, a million sparkling pixels coalesced into images both strange and familiar – feelings made colour, color made thought, thought made … understanding.

As the pictures she received shaped into ideas she could recognize and to which she could give voice, Deanna's features morphed into a mixture of shame and remorse that were clearly not her own. The words she chose were drawn from a darkening light, deeply felt.

She turned to Tom.

"Regret. They … regret causing pain. Regret taking …" Deanna searched for the right word to match the image she was receiving. " Your hope. Your … future."

"Hope?" Tom was puzzled. Then it came to him. "Our children." His own mind called forth the image of Miral. He smiled briefly. Yes, 'hope' and 'future' were appropriate enough terms.

He focused his thoughts again. This was supposed to be an interrogation session, not an exchange of philosophical pleasantries. "Tell us about you. Who are you?"

"We are …" Again, the search for words. In Deanna's mind, images of light formed, changing, shifting, pulsing. Life out of light. Luminous, incandescent, scintillating, shimmering brightness. "They think of themselves as light. Their life is light. That's the best I can do, Tom."

Tom chewed his lower lip. It was always easier to deal with something once you could give it a name. The Emerri of Cygnus 3 believed that knowing someone's name gave you power over them; it could take years of building trust to get one of them to tell you theirs. Tom had always thought that there was a grain of truth to the Emerri's belief. With a name comes not only understanding and easy identification, but also the ability to label, to judge, to dismiss. He had lost count of how often - in his youth, at the Academy, in Auckland, his early days on Voyager - he had wished to be called something, anything other than 'Paris', and how he finally, after all these years, was starting to feel like he was settling into his family's name.

Yes, names were powerful things, for good and ill. He would have to think of an appropriate name for these ... beings, if only for his own peace of mind. The image of the Sistine Chapel came back to him. The light. Deanna spoke.

"Yes, you can call them 'the Lumen'."

Tom looked at her, startled. Had they read his mind? His father had insisted that he take Latin for a year, since it formed the basis for much of scientific and technical nomenclature. He hadn't realized that any of it had actually stuck though, until this moment. And to have it given back to him now by Deanna, who had never studied the old, dead Earth language…

"Yes, they can sense your thoughts. Not as clearly as they can mine, but yes, they do hear you."

 _Great._ _So much for my sophisticated interrogation techniques_. Tom sighed, and tried to draw a curtain around his thoughts, just as he had tried to do when Tuvok had initiated a mind meld after the incident on Banea. He had never been quite sure whether he had succeeded, especially since he had been barely conscious at the time, but Tuvok had never said anything and Tom lived in hope that the blackest of his private hells had not been accessible to the Vulcan. He was pleased when the image of a dark curtain drawn over his thoughts resulted in a slight frown on Deanna's beautiful features.

But whatever the source of the beings' decision to provide him with a name for themselves - presumably they had done so in order to enhance his comfort level with them - 'Lumen' seemed appropriate enough.

 _Need more information. Best to move to neutral ground._

 _Don't think too hard, Tom. They'll hear you._.

"Can you ask them why they have come to the Trifid?" Surely that was a question the K'rikians would like to see answered, that peaceful race whose worlds had been blighted by the Lumen's arrival, and who had been forced to turn to war to survive.

The images Deanna painted, with soft brushstrokes using colours the aliens dripped into her mind like pearls of silver and gold, were of a race of nomadic, space-dwelling creatures. Their children were born briefly to hold corporeal form, needing certain external conditions to transform into the beings now before them.

Having been driven from their original homing grounds by a chain of supernovas, the Lumen had found these conditions again, after much searching, in the asteroid belts and eccentric planetoids of the Trifid nebula. The new birthing places would allow their children to flash into light, to soar into space.

Of course. They needed dilithium.

Deliberately now testing out the ability of the Lumen to read his thoughts, Tom focused his mind on the sparkling crystals, imagined their catalytic matter-antimatter conversion matrices.

Deanna nodded eagerly. "Yes, that's why they come here. For the dilithium caves. They … give birth here and leave their young, so they can … transform."

Images of Earth's sea turtles came unbidden to Tom's mind; creatures laying eggs in the heated sands of tropical islands, thousands of kilometers from their usual habitat in the great oceans of his home world. Smooth round shells, something quite different emerging from within after a time, and returning to the sea to begin the cycle anew. The aliens began to pulse a little more rapidly, and Deanna smiled at their apparent response to Tom's thoughts, but gave no voice to what she received.

Noticing the change in their appearance, Tom in turn was almost tempted to smile back at them, through her, but then recalled the agony of the last few hours. There were a number of question he needed to have answered first, before he would even remotely consider getting chummy with these creatures.

"Why? Why did they take our children?"

Deanna's forehead wrinkled in visible concentration. It was clear that too many images assailed her at once, in a form that even a trained empath had difficulty sorting out. Her face settled into an expression of pain, an unbearable sorrow even as the glow emanating from her interlocutors seemed to dim a little. A tear rolled unbidden down her cheek.

"Their children are being killed as they are being born."

In short, small gasps Deanna conveyed the images she was receiving from the adult Lumen, who continued to envelop her hand in tendrils of light. Lacking the direct empathic link to the alien Tom did not, could not receive the images as clearly as Deanna did, and for that he was grateful. But between the half-Betazoid's tortured voice, his own highly visual imagination - for once more curse than blessing – infused with his own memories from another cave, he was left with a crystal clear picture of the nightmare they were painting for her.

Small bodies, torn to shreds, dark fragmentary shadows against the bright crystals meant to bring them to soaring life. Broken shapes, thrown against the sheltering caves or crushed, agonizingly slowly at times, under falling rocks meant to keep them safe. Sometimes, not often, light extinguished mercifully quickly, by the mere concussive effect of a device sown to reap a harvest of death.

And always, always the agony of their parents, feeling and witnessing everything, linked to the thoughts and minds of their dying children.

Helpless to prevent the dimming of the light.

Hopeless.

Deanna's tear-stained face looked up at his. Whispered the words.

"They want our help."

Tom's mouth went dry as he felt again, in memory, the crushing weight of the stones on his chest; saw the small, crumpled body, light and life draining away in that other cave, not so long ago.

But with his mind still raging from the terror of the last few hours, his anger refused to be stilled. He swallowed hard, tried to find eyes in the vaguely humanoid light shape, finding only rainbow whirls. How do you look something in the eye that has none?

"They have a really funny way of asking for it," he rasped. "I understand their suffering, probably better than most – but given what they just put us through, and with our ship still half-dead in space thanks to their … night time visit, I think we'll need a little bit more than a sad story and a 'pretty please' before we stretch out a helping hand."

"They were afraid to ask directly. They saw the K'rikian ship alongside ours, thought we were … allies. And they needed to make us understand." She looked up at Tom, the look in her eyes now coming from Deanna, not from another being's thoughts.

"And kidnapping my daughter is going to make me want to help them with their problems how, exactly?" Tom had recovered a little now, and his voice had acquired a cold, even tone Deanna recognized as barely banked fury; nor did she miss the sudden personal under-current in his question.

"Tom, they think in images, in feelings. And they have an image of us … wanting to protect our children, so they wanted to draw that for us more strongly. To make us see what they are going through, losing their children. To make us understand. Through our children, to make us want to … protect theirs."

Deanna paused, raised her black eyes to Tom's blue ones, understanding his need to find the truth in someone else's. "I know it's not how we would approach things, but their thought processes … they're not like ours. There was no malice. I would feel that."

Tom shook his head, his natural skepticism still on red alert.

"How did they know? How we feel about our children? Those feelings they tried –rather successfully in my case, I admit - to replicate for our … benefit."

"They are giving me an image of … of you, Tom. In that first cave. When you almost died, saving that young ensign, Mitchell. They saw that. They … felt you, your driving instinct, your need to protect her."

Her voice softened; this was Deanna, speaking to Tom. "And when you thought you were dying, you thought of Miral, didn't you?"

Tom swallowed again. His face told Deanna what she needed to know.

"The … alien child you saw in that cave, before it died in the blast, it saw your actions, saw what happened, and read your thoughts. And because the Lumen were watching, because of their link to their own dying child, they did too."

Deanna's black eyes focused on him with an intensity he had not seen in them before.

"It's you they were trying to reach, Tom. They believed – they still believe - that you would understand. That you would help save their children."


	9. Connections

" _Captain Riker, if we understand you correctly, the Enterprise was reduced to impulse, that is, for all intents and purposes immobilized 5,500 light years from home, as a result of the hostile actions of these … creatures, these 'Lumen' as you call them. They kidnapped Starfleet children. And yet your First Officer saw it as perfectly acceptable to sit down and have a chat with them, and you did nothing to stop him, you just let him proceed?"_

" _With all due respect, your Honour, based on what Commanders Paris and Troi learned in their encounter with them we could not consider the inadvertent effect the Lumen had on the warp core as a hostile act. Even the kidnapping, while horribly misguided, was understandable from their point of view, alien as that approach may be to us. It was an act of desperation, not malice._

" _Learning who the other side is, learning what motivates them, getting to understand them and their perspective on things is the first step towards peace._

" _Even if the first encounter looks like an act of war."_

.....

 

"The K'rikians are killing their children, Will."

Tom stood in the Captain's ready room, ready to begin the private debrief Riker had requested; their transmissions from the asteroid through the open comm link had been fragmented, as anticipated, and the Captain wanted details. No doubt Riker would speak with his wife and counselor later, but for now there were only the two of them.

"And their children are killing the K'rikians. It's as simple as that."

Letting his words sink in, Tom turned to the replicator. "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot." For the umpteenth time, Riker shook his head when his Number One requested the beverage he had apparently learned to like during his time at Picard's advanced command course. One of these days he would have to speak with him about his choice of phrase when ordering it, though.

Riker waited as Tom took a sip of the piping hot drink, watched him briefly close his eyes in appreciation as it warmed his throat, as well the hands that were now clutching the mug. It had been a very long day for all of them.

"First things first, Tom. How did these ... beings get onboard? Why didn't we detect them?"

"Our conversation was a bit limited on these points, but I did get some good tricorder readings before and after we turned off the dampeners. The energy they emit is partly refractive, partly consists of reverse polarization patterns, so it acts like natural shielding. It's capable of harmonizing with our own, so there was no shield resistance. As for detection, our internal sensors would have to be modulated to their specific frequency, but even that changes as frequently as our heartbeat does – when we move, sit still, exercise, or experience strong emotions. In the absence of the appropriate phase modulations they are highly unlikely to set off our intruder alerts. If they did, it would seem like a momentary blip, an error message, and our system would immediately self-correct."

Pausing to give his captain the chance to intervene with questions, but meeting only keenly focused silence, Tom continued.

"They got in through the warp core ejection conduit, and the core itself. Since matter-antimatter reaction is a natural part of their being, they probably thought they were stepping through a nice, warm shower. But in the process, they overloaded and shut down our system. B'Elanna says it's almost like they sucked the energy out of the dilithium matter-antimatter reaction process to such an extent that it compromised the warp field's ability to get re-initialized."

At this, Riker spoke. "Yeah, B'Elanna and her team have already exchanged all the dilithium crystals; at least that's one thing that isn't in short supply around here. We got plenty in the samples we tractored in. So far, nothing, but I don't think we're out of options yet. We'll figure something out." He looked at Tom expectantly.

Tom responded in measured tones. "Before you ask, no, I did not get a useful response as to how we can get it started again. They're not exactly … technically inclined. They act purely by instinct. I suppose if you _are_ something like a warp core you don't need to figure out how to fix up an artificial one."

Riker sighed. "I must say, I don't cherish the idea of limping back to the wormhole on impulse. Harry has been monitoring it through the probe we left behind; it's losing cohesion at a rate of about two percent a day. Our window to go home the fast way will close in eight days. We need that warp drive back online."

They exchanged a long look. There was no need to elaborate further. If they didn't make it back to and through the wormhole before it collapsed, without a functioning warp core their return would take far, far longer than even the projected worst-case scenario.

If they were lucky, the Federation would send another ship to meet them with a new core somewhere along the way, but without the wormhole even that initial rendezvous would take five years, less whatever small distance they might have limped towards their goal in the interim on impulse. And then they still had to fly back – ten years in total, for them as well as for any ship sent to reach them. Voyager had come back from the Delta Quadrant in seven.

And even at that, there was no guarantee that a newly brought in core could undo the damage done inadvertently by the Lumen There was also no guarantee that Starfleet would take the risk of losing a second ship.

"I assume we're heading back towards the wormhole now on impulse, just in case?"

Riker nodded. "We think we can make it. It'll be tight though, and with all the oddities floating around out here…" He didn't have to complete his thought; Tom understood perfectly well.

"No more surprises would be nice."

Tom drained his cup; both men remained silent, lost within their own thoughts for a moment. Then, with a deep breath and an inclination of his head, Riker invited his XO to continue his interrupted tale.

"They took the children by surrounding them with their bodies. The image Deanna got from them showed a process close to the molecular dissolution effect of our transporters, only it enables them to hold the children suspended within their own bodies for a period of time. My guess is that it is related to the way they … give birth, too, since their own children hold solid form for a time. Then they left the way they had come, created the stasis field where we found it, again an extension of their bodies, and waited for us to turn up."

Tom smiled to himself a little, thinking about how he would tell B'Elanna that her daughter had basically travelled through 'her' warp core. Then he chilled to the thought of what had happened to Michael Jonas, the last human he knew to have made such intimate acquaintance with the core. Focusing again, he tried to find the best way to emphasize his next point.

"Deanna will confirm that there is not a malicious bone in the Lumen's body." A brief grin flashed across his face at the ludicrousness of the metaphor he had just used. _Stop getting distracted, Paris. Yes you're giddy with relief that Miral is home, now get your shit together and report to your Captain._

"They are a peaceful species, who wish no one any harm. They are deeply sorry that the Enterprise is in the shape they inadvertently left it in, and I don't doubt their sincerity. Not sure they can fix it though."

His wandering mind recreated the subtle changes in colouration of the Lumen as they expressed their sorrow – a brightness dimmed, a pulse slowed, all reflected and opened to his understanding through Deanna's words and involuntary facial expressions. By the end of his communication with the aliens, he had found he could almost read their emotions himself, in the various light pulses they emitted.

"And when they took our children, it was their attempt – however misguided, from our perspective - to get our attention, to let us see the magnitude of their problem. They meant no harm, and in fact took great precautions to ensure that the children never even realized what was happening." Tom stopped, a little ruefully. "Until we came in to disrupt things with our dampeners, of course, and woke everybody up."

Upon his return to the ship he had spoken briefly with Miral, who – to the extent a two-year-old, even an extremely bright one, could do so – had confirmed that she had slept soundly, until the moment the stasis field collapsed in the cave and the away team took control. The older children, according to Jorak, had all corroborated her version of events.

Riker nodded slowly. A picture was forming in his mind, but he wanted to hear his XO's views first.

"Analysis?"

"Leaving aside the immediate engineering issues on the Enterprise, the problem I see here is this. We have two peaceful races, the K'rikians and the Lumen, locked in … the best I can picture it, is a deadly embrace. One is causing lethal harm simply by living, the other kills in self-defense, trying to stay alive, forcing the other to procreate faster. Unless something … someone intervenes, they will end up killing each other, slowly but inevitably."

Riker nodded thoughtfully. "I don't suppose the Lumen would consider moving their … their birthing grounds somewhere else?"

Tom shook his head. The picture Deanna had eventually obtained, after repeated questions on that point, had come in muted, nearly colourless images, dripped bleakly into her mind like a cold, wet day in November. The Lumen had travelled through space for a long time, searching for a place where the needs of their species would be met. They had come across the intense environment of the Trifid nebula just as their survival was becoming a question of chance, not certainty.

Dilithium was rare in Federation space; the Lumen had approached the Trifid from the far side of the galactic centre, the Beta Quadrant, where it was apparently rarer still. In short, the Trifid's young planetary systems and asteroid belts had been their salvation; now their newfound home could – would - become their doom.

"Well," Riker said, "even if we could do anything for either of these people – and frankly I wouldn't know where to start – the Prime Directive would apply. The K'rikians aren't warp capable, and if they hadn't shot at us first we wouldn't even have been allowed to establish contact with them. As for the Lumen, who knows what to make of them in terms of their stage of development. They sure don't need warp drive. Anyway, while both races are the ones who initiated contact with us, we are not involved in their dispute and can't interfere in their relationship with one another."

Tom, after making sure the Captain was not looking at him, rolled his eyes – a gesture he had picked up from his wife - but refrained from commenting.

The almighty Prime Directive. It had been a bone of contention between him and his father, from the time he was old enough to form and voice his own opinions. Even now that they had put most of their differences behind them and Owen Paris had gone so far as to express his respect for Tom's willingness to suffer demotion and brig time for the sake of his principles in the Monean incident, father and son knew better than to start a discussion on what would more likely than not lead to a knock-'em-down, drag-'em-out argument.

Try as he might, Tom Paris could never understand how helping a peaceful, benign species avoid extinction could somehow be a Bad Thing, and what the ability to use warp drive could possibly have to do with the right to survival. But arguing the point was moot in any event; he had no useful solutions to offer for what he had come to think of as the Trifid tragedy. The Prime Directive was safe from Tom Paris' invective and imprecations for another day.

"If it's alright with you, Captain, and if there isn't anything more for now, I'd like to go pick Miral up from Sickbay now."

The Doctor had kept her and the other smaller children under observation for a while to make sure they had suffered no ill effects. B'Elanna had stayed with her for a time, but had to turn her attention back to the warp core problem and had had to leave her in Sickbay. But while the Doc was among Miral's favourite babysitters, it was time for his little girl to come home; there would be no returning to the 'safe zone' for any of the children – at least not tonight. Tonight she would not sleep in any bed but her parents'; Tom planned to hold her close in his arms until morning.

The captain nodded his understanding, and dismissal. "Yes, go to her, Tom, and do get some rest yourself. You sure look like you can use it. I'll see you at staff briefing at 0800."

"Just one more thing, if you don't mind my saying so, Will – Deanna's been absolutely fantastic today, but she's been through the wringer. I'm sure she could use some company. Don't stay here too long yourself."

"Point taken, Tom. Thanks. I'll head out in a minute. I just need to sit and think for a bit."

Tom nodded his farewell and took his teacup to the recycler before quietly letting himself out of the ready room.

Will Riker, for his part, turned his tired eyes to the observation window, where the pink and red clouds of the Trifid seemed to form a shroud for his silenced ship.

.....

 

When Tom entered Sickbay he found it nearly empty. Only the Doctor was present, moving over an array of petri dishes with a tricorder, and Harry Kim, who was bent over a biobed stroking the soft dark fuzz on his baby son's head. Little Tommy, the youngest of the children and the most likely to suffer any adverse radiation effects, had been held back the longest, but even he was finally ready to go home.

Harry looked up at his best friend and commanding officer, the man who had gone and found his son and, staying behind in a cave of unknowns, risked becoming a hostage himself to ensure his safe return. In all the many times the two men had stood beside each other, or back to back, fighting off a hideous death and keeping each other safe, Harry had never felt the depth of gratitude he did now.

In the absence of more eloquent words, and so as not to wake his baby son, Harry mouthed a silent "thank you". Tom clasped his shoulder in silent acknowledgement and understanding, and headed over to the biobed where his own child was sleeping.

Miral could have left much sooner, but with B'Elanna tied up at engineering, Tom with the Captain and no one ready to return the children to the 'safe zone' tonight, the EMH had volunteered to do what he loved at the best of times – babysit his godchild. Tom smiled his gratitude at him as he went to take in a picture that only a few hours ago he had feared with a sickening heart he might not see again.

It never ceased to amaze Tom how much of a miniature version of B'Elanna his daughter was when asleep: light-bronze skin, soft brow ridges, beautifully arched eyebrows, glossy dark curls. Until she woke up – then she would look at the world through his sparkling blue eyes, smile his own impish grin back at him. Miral's presence in his life had opened windows into his soul he had never known existed, and he wasn't sure if he ever would be ready to examine what he would have done, would have felt, had she not been recovered. The black hell of Auckland would have been as nothing compared to the terror of leaving his child to an unknown fate - this he knew.

Behind him, the Doctor cleared his throat even as the whoosh of the door indicated Harry and Baby Tommy's departure. Tom turned around, still smiling. "Thanks for looking after her, Doc," he said softly so as not to wake Miral.

"You're welcome," the EMH said. "But before you go and remove my godchild from my care, there is something I would like you to discuss with you."

"Oh?" Tom felt a little put out. The last thing he needed right now was another issue to be dealt with, another crisis to be resolved. But he was the First Officer, and there were very few times when saying no was a realistic option. Sighing his resignation, he joined the EMH where he stood, in a corner with a multi-tiered shelf that held several dozen containers and measuring instruments.

"These are the bacterial samples we have been exposing to radiation outside the ship," the Doctor explained. "The Vulcan measles ones?" asked Tom, barely stifling a yawn. The day was catching up with him, in more ways than one.

"The very same. And it is as we … you suspected, the external radiation greatly accelerates growth, as well as encouraging virtually uncontrollable mutation."

"Fascinating," Tom said. "And this couldn't wait until tomorrow because …?"

"I am sorry if I am boring you, Mr. Paris," the Doctor snapped in his prissiest voice. "But I thought – I was mistaken, obviously – that you would be interested to hear that all growth acceleration stopped for approximately three hours around noontime, before starting again."

Tom pondered this for a moment, more out of reflexive courtesy than any genuine scientific interest. A fact emerged from the recesses of his tired mind. "Bacteria don't just stop growing and then start again with no reason."

The EMH gave him a drippingly congratulatory smile. "Precisely. Very good, Mr. Paris. I can see your medical education has not been entirely wasted."

Tom decided to ignore the sarcasm, to exhausted to even roll his eyes. "So, have you figured what caused the disruption?" He stifled another yawn, slightly more successfully than the first.

"No. This is where you come in, _Commander._ " Tom winced at the supercilious use of his rank. Never a good sign with the Doc, who still seemed to have some trouble adjusting to the fact that his former assistant was now in a position to command not only a crew of over a thousand people, including himself, but a certain amount of respect as well. Tom raised a questioning eyebrow, which was about the extent of energy he was willing to devote to further discussion.

"I tried to get someone to provide me with data on what external conditions might have prevailed at that time, but I regret to advise that I was summarily brushed off by the … lady who is in command of Astrometrics. She said, and I quote, 'We're kind of busy up here, and can't be bothered to chase a bunch of germs around'. End of quote. Even Seven of Nine was never that rude."

Tom sighed. Astrometrics had probably been working overtime, confirming the closure windows for the wormhole and charting the fastest course there with the available impulse engines. A course that might get them there in time, despite increasing odds to the contrary. He would not chastise Cran for prioritizing the ship's return over a medical experiment she and her staff knew nothing and couldn't care less about.

At the same time, this experiment was essentially the reason why they had originally brought the Doc to the Trifid, and it behooved him to cooperate to the extent possible. "Fine. I'll get someone to correlate the external sensor data with your time of reduced bacterial growth tomorrow. I assume it can wait that long?"

The Doctor clenched his jaw in a familiar display of displeasure, and activated the most grudging tone he could find in his vocal subroutine inventory. "Yes, I suppose it will have to do. _Thank you, Commander."_

And with that, Tom picked up his sleeping child gingerly, placed her head on his shoulder and breathed in the familiar, slightly powdery scent. Tinged with … ah yes. "Chocolate? After she brushed her teeth?" He cocked an eyebrow and glanced over at the Doctor, who disrupted his indignation sequence to give him a guilty look. Tom grinned and shook his head. Despite their frequent differences, there was one thing on which the Commander and the hologram were in complete agreement: spoiling Miral was an entirely acceptable pastime.

It was only during the long walk down the corridor to his quarters, holding the small, warm body of his daughter in his arms, that the discussion with the Doc filtered back into Tom's consciousness.

It was after he had settled Miral in the middle of their bed, had curled his long body around hers and had commed B'Elanna to come join them or else, that a thought took shape in his mind: There might be something in the Trifid nebula's physical environment that could disrupt the radiation which caused unrestrained bacterial growth.

And it was as he felt his daughter's heartbeat under his tight embrace, and as the skin of his arms warmed with the soft rhythm of her breath, that Tom Paris understood with perfect clarity that this knowledge would be of great interest to the K'rikians and their dying worlds.


	10. Leaning Forward

_"So, Captain Riker. If what we heard from Mr. Paris' testimony is correct, the idea to intervene in the Trifid conflict was his?"_

" _Yes, that is correct."_

" _And you just went along. At his instigation."_

" _No. The decision to carry out the intervention was mine, and I take full responsibility for it. I am the Captain, and as such I discuss possible courses of action with my officers. And yes, they often come to me with ideas, based on their particular expertise, for courses of action we may wish to take. Sometimes we carry them out, other times we do not._

" _But the accountability for any decisions taken stops with me, and me alone. So, contrary to your implied suggestion that Commander Paris alone should bear the responsibility for any alleged breach of the Prime Directive in the Trifid, he should not even be before this … court."_

" _That's a very noble sentiment, I'm sure, Captain, but as your Executive Officer Commander Paris is responsible for carrying out the actions that you say … you … decided on. Accordingly he is properly before this court. Moreover, the Commander's record in these matters speaks for itself, loud and clear. I will thank you for not questioning the appropriateness of these proceedings again."_

" _That's fine, your honour. But I want it to be perfectly understood that Commander Paris did nothing for which he lacked my authorization. If we both must be judged, then we must be judged together."_

" _Indeed, Captain. But what I want to be perfectly understood by you, Mr. Paris and the jury is this, Captain: Based on your own evidence, when you allowed Commander Paris to talk you into this … this venture, he made it abundantly clear to you that he knew you would be breaking the law. He did what he did deliberately and willfully and fully aware of the consequences - because he had done it before. Not believing that he was right, or that you were right, or that you had the law on your side, but knowing full well that he was wrong, and taking a calculated gamble that this court or a court like it would somehow find a reason to excuse your unlawful actions. It is that arrogance which this court will not stand for, and which will be reflected in any sentence this court will administer in the case of Commander Paris."_

" _Objection, your honour. You are providing summation and argument, not investigation. And you may not, under any circumstances, anticipate the Commissioners' ruling."_

" _Objection overruled, counselor. I am not anticipating anything. I am stating a fact."_

.....

 

"It's the particles in the nebula that we see as the black streaks." Harry was bent over a console in Astrometrics that was linked to the operational sensor system. His finger pointed at a series of readings taken between 11:05 and 14:30 ship time, while both he and Tom were looking intently at an image on an overhead screen, which Lieutenant Commander Cran, the Chief of Astrophysics, had called up in the centre of the lab.

The EMH, pleased that his discovery was finally receiving the proper attention, preened a little as he too studied the screen. He had not been programmed for astrophysics and stellar phenomena, but after seven years of multi-tasking in the Delta Quadrant he had certainly picked up enough to follow the conversation with interest. And so, although he was unlikely to mention it, he was grateful for the holo-emitter Tom had set up in Astrometrics to enable him to be present for the discussion of his discovery.

Cran nodded her affirmation of Harry's statement. "According to the sensor data, at the material time the ship passed through an area where the molecular dispersion patterns of the particles – the stuff that makes the Trifid such an ideal stellar nursery - are somewhat denser than in most areas. Carbon, silicon/oxygen compounds, iron, frozen water, carbon dioxide and ammonia. Not _much_ denser than anywhere else, only by about 7 percent, but apparently enough to absorb the most radical forms of radiation, including all the ones beyond the theta band."

"And those particles halt bacterial growth?" Harry mused, only slightly intimidated by the lecture. "Remarkable."

"Not really," Tom said, his forehead creased in a light frown. Biology and biochemistry were not Harry's forte. "As Petra mentioned during the briefing a couple of days ago, the particle accumulations in the Trifid have been defeating our best sensors' ability to penetrate them; they reflect light as well. So it shouldn't be a surprise that they absorb or deflect the kind of ambient radiation that spurs on the bacterial growth. It's not the bacteria themselves that's being affected, it's the radiation that causes them to grow that's being reduced."

"That's right," Cran said. "By those black streaks. Like I said when we got here, there are parts of the nebula that basically act like a curtain."

Tom stared at her, dumbstruck.

A curtain. The same image he had used to shield his mind from unwanted intrusion by the light beings now seared its way into his mind with the force of a photon torpedo.

You draw a curtain to keep out the light.

Of course.

Tom hit his comm badge, harder than usual, ignoring the protest from his still-recuperating chest. "Paris to Torres." "Yes, Tom."

"B'Elanna, is it possible to modify the Bussard collectors to draw in a number of things at the same time? Things like – what did you say, Petra? - carbon, silicon/oxygen compounds, iron, HO2, CO2 and ammonia – you know, the kind of stuff that's floating around in certain parts of this damn nebula?"

Silence, then, "I can't see why not. We used them on Voyager to collect plasma all the time. I forget exactly what I used to do the conversion then, probably a chunk of leola root and a replicated mousetrap, but I bet we have better materials onboard here."

Tom suddenly and fervently recalled just how much he adored his brilliant wife. "What about release. How do we vent what's been collected? In a targeted but sufficiently wide dispersal pattern? Guys, help me think here."

"It would probably help a little if we knew what it was you had in mind, Thomas Eugene Paris." It was hard to miss the slightly astringent tone in B'Elanna's voice as it came over the comm link.

Tom shook his head impatiently, his mind racing three steps ahead. Wasn't it obvious? "The K'rikian home worlds. They're being destroyed by the radiation caused by the emergence of the Lumen. If we could draw a curtain between those worlds and the asteroids where the Lumen are born …"

Realization dawned quickly on Harry's face and dissolved into a broad grin. He completed his best friend's sentence. "… then the K'rikian home worlds would be saved, they could stop mining the dilithium caves, and the Lumen's children wouldn't be killed."

"Exactly. Two birds and one great, big, pulverized intergalactic stone. The adult Lumen present no harm, they emit only as much or less radiation than our warp core, so they should be able to co-exist peacefully with the K'rikians. Or at the very least they should be able to ignore each other, happily ever after, and all that."

Tom felt a sudden lightness in his head, a sense of absolute clarity of purpose he had not felt since he had stepped onto the Delta Flyer in order to save a watery world from its fate.

"All we need to do is move part of one of those black particle strands into a place where it will do some good. And you and B'Elanna are just the kind of geniuses to make it happen," he added, his voice almost giddy with excitement.

"There's only one problem," B'Elanna chimed in. Tom turned, startled to hear her voice in the room rather than over the comm link. She grinned at him as she came down the stairs into the centre of the lab.

"I thought I'd come to where the action seems to be this morning. Since we're stuck in pretty much the same place where we were yesterday in Engineering, and the Doc seems to have beaten back the Vulcan measles sufficiently for me to have enough staff working on the warp core for once."

She smiled briefly at the gratified EMH, then turned back to face her husband. "And _that's_ the real problem, in case you forgot. We're still stuck. It's all well and good to make plans to run the Bussard collectors and turn the Trifid into a Quadrifid by painting a new streak across it, but apart from a bunch of shuttles with limited capacity, we have nothing to work with. This ship, I'm afraid, isn't going anywhere to collect anything anytime soon. We'll be lucky if we make it to the wormhole on time."

Tom slammed his hand against the console he was leaning against. He hadn't forgotten, exactly, but he hadn't particularly wanted to be reminded, either. "Fuck." He took a deep breath. So close. The solution – in their grasp, but …

"There's another problem," the Doctor chimed in, happy to finally have something substantive to contribute to the discussion. "Apart from the language being used in this lab. Although the Commander might consider it a minor irritant, based on his record in these matters."

Everyone turned to look at him, Cran feeling slightly left out, not having the same shared past as the other four. Tom raised a questioning eyebrow.

"The Prime Directive. In case you forgot. Again."

Harry looked at Tom uncomfortably. Despite the increasingly relaxed relationship between Tom and the EMH, the latter couldn't seem to stop needling his former assistant about something, anything, anytime the opportunity offered itself. Almost as if he had to prove to himself that Tom wasn't his superior officer, needed to keep him in his place a little.

Cran just stared at her XO, not bothering to hide her curiosity. She knew that he had - rather famously, in fact - "done time" in the past, but never bothered enough to look up the details.

Tom snorted, and proceeded to enlighten her. "What _my friend_ the Doctor" – the EMH had the grace to wince a little – "has so kindly decided to remind me of, Commander, is the fact that while we were on Voyager I got demoted and spent time in the brig for having the audacity to try and save a planet that wasn't on the Federation's pre-approved list of places we are permitted to save."

"Oh." Cran felt a little embarrassed, having made her First Officer essentially bare his disciplinary file to her. That sort of thing was not usually considered a good career move, even if he didn't seem to be bothered too much.

"What happened … to the planet?" she asked, trying to deflect attention from her _faux pas,_ while at the same time completely oblivious to the undercurrents of sorrow and anger that suddenly filled her lab. Inter-personal relations had never been her strength.

Tom's jaw tightened as painful memories flooded his mind – Riga, that beautiful blue world - and while he had no intention of shirking the question, he was grateful when Harry stepped in quickly to spare him having to answer.

"It was a world entirely made of water, right to the core, held together by an ancient containment field. Truly amazing, one-of-a-kind. Teeming with life. The race that took possession of it towards the end … caused the containment field to weaken. Tom … the Commander tried to stop the process – I'm glossing over some details here, I'm sure he won't mind – but he was stopped. The planet now no longer registers on long-range sensors. We assume that containment failed catastrophically and that it has ceased to exist."

Cran slowly nodded her understanding. "That's awful. And what a crock." She looked at Tom. "Sorry, sir, but that's what it is, the great Prime Directive. A crock of … you know. In my humble opinion. But I'm just a scientist. What do I know of politics or law?"

"What indeed," Tom sighed. "Of course, you wouldn't get any disagreement from me." He looked at Cran thoughtfully. If this dry-as-a-bone, no-nonsense scientist felt this way, maybe there was hope for the Federation yet.

Tom suddenly remembered the discussion he had had with the Captain during their first meeting, the dinner that had turned out to be a job interview. Riker had mentioned that he thought views towards the Prime Directive were indeed changing.

How about Will himself? He took a deep breath. "Alright, you guys go back to our warp core problem; seems to me we've done all we can here for now and I trust you, Doc, are satisfied. I'm going to have a chat with the Captain."

His nonchalant final statement left hanging in the lab, Tom turned to B'Elanna. With his own eyes he sought hers, sinking into their deep brown depths, calling on the bond that linked them now so strongly. Willed her to remember.

An image, black and white, a fantasy setting without miracles on offer. Railing at an unjust fate, an unnecessary catastrophe, being caught in the web of rules, trapped like a fly.

Her voice, in memory. _What about Tom Paris?_ His decision, then, breaking free.

His punishment. Those walls closing in. Loneliness. For both of them.

B'Elanna knew what her mate wanted from her, what he might do again, would do again today, if only he could. His honour would demand no less.

For all the things that made him who he was, for all the reasons why she loved this man, she nodded her support, again. In these things she would give it, always. Help him pay the price. Pay it herself.

"Just remember," she said softly, "even if you get the Captain onside for this crazy plan – and I can see it in your eyes, you have a crazy plan ready to go – we don't as yet have the means to execute it."

Harry, who was beginning to feel a little left out, as he often did when he watched Tom and B'Elanna do what he somewhat jealously called their 'Klingon mind meld thing', decided it was time to add his two slivers of latinum to whatever 'discussion' his friends were having.

"About the core," he said. "I know you asked the Lumen whether they knew how to fix the warp drive," he said, "and they didn't have the technical wherewithal, let alone the vocabulary, to tell you how. But fact is, they went in, they came out, and it died. Maybe we could get one of them to go in again? Undo what they did?"

.....

 

Tom hesitated before requesting entry into the Captain's ready room. He had already dismissed the notion of taking the Flyer on his own; B'Elanna was right. With the shuttle's limited capacity he could be collecting particles for months and not weave a curtain tight enough to do what needed to be done. There was simply no point in going the lone wolf route this time.

But he knew what he would be asking of Riker; knew he could be removed from his position just for putting the question.

Knew that he would be putting a burden on his Captain's shoulders whatever his answer would be, and the responsibility he would feel if it should be "yes".

But Thomas Eugene Paris also knew the far greater responsibility that would weigh him down for the rest of his life, were he to decide not to ask the question at all.

Trust. It all came down to trust.

Tom breathed out slowly, chimed the door, entered silently. Stood and waited until he knew he had Riker's full attention.

"Captain, I think I found a way out of the problem between the K'rikians and the Lumen."

 _I_ , not _we_. Riker's sensors went on alert immediately. It was not like Tom Paris to lay sole claim to ideas. He always made sure contributions were credited, however minute.

Riker scrutinized his First Officer's face carefully, intently, as he listened silently and intently to the plan Tom described. A plan clearly conceived by his First Officer, but just as clearly based in part on the EMH's findings and Cran's corroborating analysis, and with technical specifications that had evidently been devised by Harry Kim and B'Elanna Torres.

Riker became more and more aware that this should be a senior staff briefing, with each of these officers outlining their respective substantive contributions. Not a one-on-one with his XO.

It did not take the Captain very long to understand why no one else was present. Why Tom Paris made it crystal clear that what he was proposing was his own plan, his own idea.

It was a question of responsibility, not vanity. Protection and plausible deniability, for everyone but Tom Paris.

And William Riker, if he agreed.

"You want the Enterprise to intervene in the conflict between the K'rikians and the Lumen." Flatly stated.

"Yes."

"To intervene in a conflict not of our own making, between two species who are neither warp capable nor members of the Federation."

"Yes."

"In direct and knowing breach of the Prime Directive."

"Yes."

A breath, expelled.

"Your reason?"

"Because it's the right thing to do. Because everything I have ever known of Starfleet and the people who made it great tells me that when we have the means to protect two species from mutual annihilation, we have a moral responsibility to do so."

"The law says …"

"I know what the law says, Will. I've run up against it before. It's a law without a moral compass."

"You've paid a price for that view before, Tom."

"Yes, and that was for a wasted effort. If there's another price to be paid, it will be small one by comparison to what we can achieve here. Because we will have already won the prize that matters."

Blue eyes locked into bluer. "This time they won't just throw the book at you. You know that. I'd probably get off with a demotion, first offence and all. You …"

"Yes. I know."

"I can't let that happen. You're too good a commanding officer, Tom. Starfleet needs people like you."

Tom laughed, a little bitterly. "Are you so sure about that? Seems to me, whenever I get something good going, I manage to run up against a rule that just wasn't meant for 'people like me'. And here we have a rule without … how do I put this? Well, I'm married to a Klingon, so I'll put it this way: a rule without honour. And if I have to choose between that rule and the path of honour, well, I'm sorry, but that's not really a choice."

Riker stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You sound like a mixture between Picard and my friend Worf, Paris. I always hated it when the Captain pulled the 'moral duty' line on us, or when Worf fell back on his honour. Whenever they did either, it inevitably got us into all kinds of trouble."

Tom waited in silence; he knew Riker wasn't finished. He would be patient.

Was rewarded.

"Then again, doing the right thing can be painful, but also curiously liberating."

Tom straightened a little, responded cautiously. "Yeah. The brig _was_ liberating, in a roundabout way. Taught me that I could live with the consequences of my decisions, and my choices. If I knew they were right. _This_ is right."

Riker fingered his beard slowly, deliberately, as he stared out of the observation window. Times like this he found himself missing Picard's fish tank; as disconcerting as that spiky thing floating mindlessly around inside it had been, it gave you something to look at that didn't remind you of the problems that usually lay just the other side of the view port.

He turned back as Tom spoke again.

"The one thing when you keep breaking the law is, odds are that eventually you'll run into a good lawyer. Mine told me his favourite quote from an old case: 'Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds.' You know, the great Jim Kirk lost his admiral's bars over a Prime Directive violation. Janeway didn't even get so much as a slap on the wrist when we got back, for saving a group of telepaths from the Devore. She got promoted instead."

"You're saying we might get away with it?"

Tom shook his head vigorously. "No, no, that's not what I'm saying at all. But Janeway did what she did literally about _a week after_ I finished doing my time for failing Monea. Sure felt a hobgoblin biting my ass _that_ day. But the more I thought about it, the less I felt like a failure. I felt like I'd set an example, in some way. Changed her view. And maybe others'."

Both officers retreated into their own thoughts again, messages delivered and understood. There really wasn't anything else to be said. There were only decisions to be made.

After a silence that stretched into minutes, Riker let out a long breath.

"Your lawyer friend. Let's give him a call when we get back to Earth. We may need him. In the meantime, what are we doing about getting the warp core back online?"

 


	11. Chapter 11

" _Captain, your statement? I presume you have one now?"_

" _I do. I have no wish to pre-empt our counsel's legal argument, but I want to state for the record that I believe it is time for the law to change. We know that it can, when it is so patently wrong, and that this court has the power to declare void a law that is inconsistent with what the Federation stands for. Our legal system is not just based on rules, it is also based on equity. And equity is based on doing what is right. That in turn must shape the law, and our interpretations of it._

_In my time as an officer in Starfleet, I have seen the law change a number of times, and always for the better._

_Just a few short years ago, my best friend, the late Commander Data, was told in a court of law that he was a machine, without rights, without right to self-determination. I know this because thanks to some … rule … I was the one made to prosecute the case against him._

_Luckily, I failed and my then-Captain, now Admiral Jean-Luc Picard, convinced the judge that it was time for the law to change. That the human rights norms and standards on which the Federation was founded were meant for all sentient life forms, including artificial ones, sentient life forms not yet discovered or in existence when the law was written._

_And that … man, my friend, whose positronic brain would have been considered unworthy of being called 'alive' had the law been upheld, continued to serve in Starfleet with unparalleled distinction, ultimately sacrificing his own life to save the Romulan Empire and thereby setting the Federation on a path of peace with a race once considered among its worst enemies. This incredible step forward for all of us would not have been possible but for a change in the law that permitted Commander Data to become who he was, who we needed him to be._

_Likewise, the Doctor who served on Voyage for seven years, saving countless lives, and who joined us on the Enterprise on our last mission, was recently declared to be a sentient being and a person in his own right by the Supreme Court of the Federation. He will soon be teaching what he learned in the Delta Quadrant to students at the Academy, teachings that will have a profound effect on our understanding of medicine._

_The law can change, your honour, and it must, when change is for the better or when failure to change breeds injustice._

_I do not consider what Commander Paris and I did to have been a breach of the Prime Directive. I consider the Prime Directive to be a breach of everything the Federation and Starfleet stand for. It is time for change."_

.....

 

Tom banked the Flyer around the asteroid belt, following the coordinates of their last landing, but with radiation shields only this time, and without stealth. This time, they wanted to be found. He looked at Deanna.

"Anything yet?"

"I'm not sure," she replied. "I'm reaching out, but I don't seem to be getting anything back."

"Harry?"

"Nope. Still having a hard time getting sensors to cooperate out here, even if we have a better idea now what we're looking for."

Tom sighed. It was an unfortunate fact, if somewhat ironic, that it was often easier to communicate through artifice and technology than it was to do so directly, thought-to-thought, face-to-face. The K'rikians had responded to the Enterprise's hails within minutes and a delegation was on board even now, speaking with the Captain, B'Elanna and the EMH.

Hailing the Lumen was a different matter.

"Wait a minute. Tom, I think I've got something. Looks like a warp signature, leading to the asteroid where you found the kids. Could of course be the Flyer's, from the last time you were out here. As usual, I can't tell." Harry's frustration was evident in his voice. He was beginning to take his inability to rely on his systems personally, a reflection of his value as an officer, and he was not happy about it.

"Relax, Harry. Nobody is holding it against you. If I thought every time we got sucked into a space anomaly or got flung around in a plasma storm was a reflection of my piloting skills, I'd have half the ego I do."

Deanna laughed. "Yes, and if I had decided to give up on empathy every time some alien menace invaded my mind, I'd be out of a job now."

"Fine, thanks guys. I take your point. But it _is_ frustrating, to say the least."

"Let's set down," Tom announced. "They asked for our help; if they want it, it does stand to reason they would hang around some place familiar, so that we can actually deliver it." He angled the Flyer to follow the readings Harry had sent to his console.

"At least we know already this place isn't mined," Harry said. "If the K'rikians had left a charge here, you'd have found it." Tom snorted in response, unconsciously rubbing his rib cage. "Hey, at least my talent for mine sweeping is more reliable than your sensors."

One of his requests to the Captain had been to get the K'rikians to provide a detailed map of the places where they had placed their insidious charges, as well as an undertaking to remove them should the Enterprise's efforts be successful. If their actions did manage to result peace between the two races, the last thing either side needed was to have more children – or unlucky alien explorers - die inadvertently as a result of unexploded remnants of the conflict.

Harry looked at him with a visible shudder. He had been shocked by the damage done by the K'rikian's seismic trigger when he had visited Tom in Sickbay; the memory still made him wince.

Tom decided it was time to lighten the mood a little. "Hey, did you guys know that for purposes of Starfleet personnel records and compensation claims, hitting a mine is considered an 'incident' rather than an 'accident'? Makes little difference in my case, but something to keep in mind when you're running into one with a Starfleet shuttle. They can't hold it against you. Much."

Harry snorted. "Should tell that to Chakotay, in case someone ever lets him behind the helm again."

"They're here." Deanna's voice, firm and definitive. Harry and Tom exchanged glances, all professional again.

Show time.

Once they landed on the asteroid, the decision to return to the cave where they had had their previous encounter was easily made; neither Tom nor Harry much appetite for inviting the Lumen onboard the shuttle, given what had happened to the Enterprise. The only question that remained in Tom's mind was whether to have Harry stay with the Flyer, but now that they knew the aliens were benign, such precaution seemed unnecessary. More to the point, Tom thought it might be useful for his friend to meet the beings who had abducted his son. There was something to be said for the closure he himself had found in seeing the Lumen, understanding their plight.

"Alright, everybody. Let's go meet our misguided friends."

The cave was unchanged, although this time Tom found that he was almost able to appreciate its translucent beauty. He smiled as he heard Harry gasp at the rainbow refractions their wrist lights threw off the crystals that were lining the walls.

They turned the corner into the main cavern, familiar now to both Tom and Deanna. It was filled with the pulsating light of two of the Lumen; Tom assumed they were the same ones they had previously encountered, but he had to admit to himself that he had no way of knowing.

He nodded to Deanna, who approached them with her hand outstretched, inviting the touch that would join part of her consciousness to theirs. She turned back to her companions, her face radiant with their joy. "They know," she said simply. "They know we have come to help. They are very, very grateful."

"That's great, and I'm glad to hear it. But let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We need something first. Deanna …?"

They had discussed at length what images Deanna would be sending the Lumen, and in what sequence: An emerging Lumen child. Drops of light from the birth falling on the K'rikian worlds, raining death. Small ships flying sorties to lay charges in the caves; emergence, detonations. More death. The Enterprise, warp core glowing, drawing a blackened border between the Lumen and a dying K'rikian world. A Lumen entering the Enterprise, the ship stopped dead, its warp core dark and silenced. The border dissolving again, death and destruction resuming. The last three sequences run again, before the entire series would start from the beginning.

He hoped they would get it, somehow, would understand what they were asking. We can help, but only with our engines. Undo what you did.

Deanna remained still for a long time, her face a study in concentration; both aliens were pulsating brightly, listening, with whatever senses they used. Suddenly, the light that had enveloped her hand was drawn back into the being that had touched her. She staggered a little at the loss, disoriented, until Harry caught and steadied her.

"Do you think they understood?" Tom asked softly. "That we need their help, if we are to help them – and the K'rikians?"

"I believe they did. There was … a sudden brightness. But then, at the end, they seemed to be talking to each other, not to me. The one I touched kept repeating one particular message to the other, as if he needed to convince her. I heard it over and over when we were still connected. Of course I can't be sure because their thought patterns are so different from ours. But I believe what he was conveying was … an absence, something they had to give back, like …"

"… a debt that had to be paid?"

"Yes, yes I think that's right. Or a price, to get something they need. And then I sensed a deep sadness from one of them. I'm not sure whether that means they can't help."

Before the three officers, the two light beings seemed to merge. Tom noticed that their pulsing slowed, as one darkened perceptibly. Even without Deanna's empathic powers he could see it for what it was – the universal colour of mourning, of sorrow, of despair.

Involuntary tears started to stream down the Betazoid counselor's face as they watched one of the beings gradually detach itself from the other, who seemed reluctant to let go. For a long while, a tendril of light from the being that remained clung to the one moving away until at last it could hold on no longer and the connection broke.

The departing Lumen drifted slowly at first, then with increasing purposefulness, until it seemed to streak through the cavern and out the passage that led to the outside. The light reflecting its movement through the tunnel dimmed swiftly until all that was left of the being's presence was its imprint on the retinas of the three officers.

In silence they watched the remaining alien seemingly shrink in on itself, much paler now, but still pulsing regularly. Instinctively, Deanna approached the being and touched it lightly with her hand, trying to offer comfort.

At the touch her eyes widened in distress and she turned to Tom. "Tom, the one who left was her lifemate. He's going to the Enterprise to …" she gasped, unable to continue.

As she tried to find her voice, Tom's comm badge chirped, its incongruously cheerful sound echoing from the crystal walls.

"Enterprise to away team. Torres here. You must have done something right down there, guys - the warp core just came back online. I have no idea what happened, we weren't doing anything we hadn't tried before, but there was this sudden flash into the core from the bottom up … And now the matter-anti-matter matrix is fully re-established and the dilithium chambers have activated. It's … unbelievable. We have full power."

The three officers in the cave could only look at each other and at the darkened and bereft creature before them. They heard B'Elanna's voice drift off in wonder as on the Enterprise the blue light of the warp core - perhaps a little brighter than it had been before - became once more the living, pulsing heart of the ship.

.....

 

When the away team returned to the Enterprise they were subdued; very few words had been spoken during the return flight. Deanna excused herself immediately from the shuttle bay to debrief the Captain in the privacy of their quarters.

By unspoken agreement, Tom and Harry headed for Engineering. Tom took B'Elanna aside and whispered the explanation in her ear that he had not wanted to provide over an open comm line. Her joy turned to disbelief as he spoke, then to shock and sorrow.

A number of the staff in Engineering observed the scene with detached curiosity. They also briefly wondered at the sight of Harry Kim, standing at the warp core for some time as if paying his respects, staring at it with what seemed like suspiciously glittering eyes before turning away and calling for the turbolift to take him to the bridge.

The curious eyes returned to their duty stations. There was much work to be done. The Captain had ordered a modification to the Bussard collectors, for reasons apparently known only to the senior staff. There was some grumbling, but with the Chief Engineer never far from their shoulder and the XO now touring the room looking grimly determined, everyone put their professional pride on the line to get the job done, and fast.

.....

 

The next three days flew by with long hours for all, especially the senior officers. Miral spent most of her time with the other children in the ship's little school, sleeping with Libby and Baby Tommy until one or the other of her parents would come in silently, often late, to take her back to their quarters so she could at least wake up to one of their faces.

The ship had reached one of the Trifid's cloud arms at warp, then streaked through its densest parts at full impulse. The modified Bussard collectors performed above expectations. They would go to warp again to reach the K'rikian home worlds, reduce speed to impulse for the dispersal, then head for the wormhole at full warp. Timing would be tight, but the command team was confident they would make it. Calculations had to be precise and tightly plotted for a complex course.

Cran's staff in Astrometrics had done their jobs. If she knew what the detour was about, she did not discuss it with them.

Truth be told, Petra Cran herself was completely in her element, taking samples, calculating and projecting particle densities. She would get a paper out of this mission yet, despite its changed parameters - being the only astrophysicist of her time able to describe how the face of a nebula had been changed should bring her all the peer recognition her heart desired. The fact that the Trifid's "new look" would not be visible from Earth for another 60 years would only add to the allure of her findings.

Amid all the frenzied activity, the rumour mill that churns onboard every Starfleet vessel was eerily silent. By unspoken agreement, the sudden change in the mission objective was not discussed. The tension in the faces of the Captain and his First Officer quelled any attempt at speculation, and soon even the whispers in Ten Forward stopped.

.....

 

At first, although overjoyed at the idea of the protection the Enterprise would create for their worlds, the K'rikians had been reluctant to accept an end to their campaign. It had been so very long, and the defense of their people had become their way of life.

But the humans were not easily dissuaded, C'ro'Tak found. A journey to the asteroid that had become the unofficial meeting place for humans and Lumen – Tom's third - had convinced the K'rikian captain, now by default the ambassador for his people, of the rightness of the peace offered and the desire of the light beings to do no harm.

C'ro'Tak had been deeply skeptical of the possibility that he might find something in common with the demons that had wrought such destruction upon his home. But Tom Paris had told C'ro'Tak on the way to the asteroid, "A great man of my planet's history once said, you don't make peace with your friends, you make peace with your enemies." And the words, although unfamiliar, and the thought, although new, had rung true for the K'rikian captain.

The meeting was tense at first. Three of the Lumen came to meet the killers of their children; in turn, the victims of those same children's birth had come to see the beings responsible for the death of three worlds.

Deanna Troi provided the bridge for the two races to speak with one another and although necessarily limited, the images that flowed through her showed shared pain, shared sorrow, and shared hope.

It was a beginning, and an understanding was reached how to turn that beginning into more.

Of course C'ro'Tak had to ask on the way back what had become of the wise leader whose words had touched him so, and had made it possible for him to enter the cave. "He died at the hands of a man who did not believe in peace," the fair human had told him. "A man of his own people. And although his bitterest enemy mourned his death, peace didn't come for a long time afterwards. Because both their peoples had forgotten how to let go of war. It's a habit not easily broken."

C'ro'Tak would hold this simple tale close to his heart, and tell it often in the coming years.

Not long after the K'rikians' first meeting with the Lumen, Captain Riker offered them passage back closer to their home world, given how long it would take their much slower ships to make the journey.

But C'ro'Tak declined, with great dignity and a bowing of his head. A bargain had been struck, and his ship was the closest to many of the seismic charges that had been laid. He would honour this bargain and remove the unexploded mines, regardless of when, or whether, he would see his home world again.

C'ro'Tak had been, after all, tasked with protecting his people. And this was how he would fulfill his duties – by protecting his adversaries' children, and thereby ensuring the peace.

The K'rikian did, however, finally accept the Captain's offer of letting the Enterprise's medical expertise be brought to bear on his crew's illnesses, caused by their long exposure to radiation.

And so it was there, in Sickbay, that the last piece of the puzzle slid into place.

.....

 

Tom looked at Riker and the Doctor thoughtfully, over the head of the unconscious K'rikian Captain, who was having surgery for the removal of a heavily infected tertiary organ. The EMH had summoned his former assistant because he – rightly – thought the latter would find the organ equally as fascinating as he had, from a purely physiological point of view.

Riker sat on the adjacent biobed having just finished a round with a dermal regenerator, administered by his XO following a brief and embarrassing moment of inattention with an 'extra hot' coffee in Ten Forward. He glared at Tom, daring him to make a facetious comment about drinking too fast, but found that the Commander's mind was elsewhere entirely.

Finally, Tom spoke, giving an indication what he had been thinking about. "The K'rikians could probably use some help to assist them with recovery. They're medical knowledge is about as far behind ours as their propulsion systems."

"A worthy sentiment, Mr. Paris." The EMH injected, as he temporarily stilled his laser scalpel over the K'rikian's chest cavity. "Unfortunately, the Enterprise does not have enough vaccine or anti-bacterial agents, let alone the personnel, the hypo sprays or the time, to help the inhabitants of seven worlds."

Tom chewed his lower lip. "We could provide _some_ help if we gave them a couple of replicators programmed to make vaccines and hypo sprays. It would take a long time, of course, but it could be done. We do know they have the energy sources necessary to power a replicator …"

He let this thought trail off, knowing he was pushing the envelope, and glanced warily at his uncharacteristically ill-humoured Captain.

Riker, who had been holding his breath at the exchange, exhaled loudly. "Forget it, Tom. We've already stuck our necks out way too far here. Giving Federation technology away to a non-warp capable civilization would be beyond irresponsible. You know that … No. Just forget it. I can't authorize that." Out of a sense of fairness, he added, "Nice thought though, don't get me wrong. But the answer has to be no."

Silence reigned for a long few minutes until someone across sickbay cleared his throat. A hesitant voice.

"Would it be 'giving away technology' if … a Starfleet officer … stayed with it and operated it? On behalf of Starfleet?'

All three turned to look at the speaker. Dr. Jeremy Fincher, unofficially relegated to being the EMH's assistant – second even to Nurse Ogawa - since he had emerged from quarantine, was now working on cataloguing the bacterial samples used in the Doc's experiments. He squared his narrow, slightly sloping shoulders against the scrutiny of his superiors.

Riker let out a long, deeply felt sigh. He exchanged a long, meaningful, glance with his First Officer through carefully hooded eyes. Riker sensed where this was going, and wasn't sure whether he was being dragged, pushed or moving on his own volition.

"I'm not a lawyer, but …"

"…you _could_ argue that the technology was still in Federation hands, if it's operated by a Starfleet Officer." Tom completed the Captain's sentence, a thoughtful smile forming on his face.

"You would of course need a volunteer," the Doc injected in his most acerbic tone, intent on dragging the conversation back to reality. "A volunteer who would be stuck out here in the Trifid nebula without human companionship until the next time the wormhole opens, whenever that may be. And that is provided the Federation decides to risk losing another vessel to some new, highly hazardous and utterly frivolous exploration mission at that time. In other words, Commander, that _hypothetical Starfleet Officer_ very likely will never come home. I am positive the recruits will be lining up outside your door."

"I'll do it." That same soft voice, low but sure.

Riker's mouth opened, and closed again. This was going way to fast, spinning out of control. Too stunned to speak, the Captain, First Officer and EMH just stared at Fincher.

Tom recovered first. Gently he asked, "May I ask why, Dr. Fincher? Why you would consider such a thing?"

Noting the respectful use of his title and the fact that the XO did not appear to be questioning his sanity but rather seemed to want to be convinced that he was serious, Fincher mustered his courage. Looking down at his hands, he spoke in a low, deliberate voice, gaining strength as he went on.

"We all know – it's pretty obvious – that I'm not a particularly good physician. I scraped by at the Academy, and I get hopelessly intimidated by all the … the _competence_ that I see around me here on a daily basis. The real reason I'm doing short-term stints, replacing real Starfleet medical officers for a few weeks at a time, is … that way, I hope no one has to deal with me long enough to find out just how unsuited I am to serving on a ship like this. And I don't have to stick around long enough for people to see me as the … fraud I feel like most of the time."

Fincher noted Riker starting to protest at this sudden outburst, but waved him off. His voice was gaining confidence now.

"Don't bother being polite, Captain. We all know I'm right. I mean no disrespect, but Commander Paris here got his certification in emergency medicine as an afterthought, and even _he_ is a better doctor than I ever will be. If it hadn't been for his recognition of a potential epidemic onboard and calling out for help, most of the crew would have gotten sick and ... ." He didn't finish the sentence, allowing the possibilities to dangle before his audience.

Then, with determination and defiance, Fincher locked eyes with Riker. "But I _can_ operate a replicator, I _can_ replicate hypo sprays, and I _can_ administer a vaccine and train others to do it. I can do this, and it may be the only useful thing I may ever be given the chance to do. I got into medicine because I wanted to help people, even though I knew I wouldn't be very good. Here's my chance to make a difference. You don't need me here, sir. Starfleet sure doesn't need me. But the K'rikians do."

His voice took on an almost pleading tone. "Please, Captain, let me do this. Please."

Tom Paris felt those words like a punch to his gut, an echo from another day, another time. _Please, Captain, let me make this flight. Please._

The Warp Ten flight, almost taken away from him. His plea to Captain Janeway, to let him do this one thing, to prove to himself and others that he could do … _something_ important with his life _. Please, Captain, let me make this flight. Please._

He had gotten his wish, been permitted to take the flight - and while it had not brought him the redemption he had sought, a door was opened that day for him, a door that showed him the way to find himself.

If Thomas Eugene Paris, habitual underachiever, convicted criminal, drifter and screw-up, deserved such a door, then so did Jeremy Fincher.

Tom turned to Riker. "I believe we should let him go, Captain. If he is willing to stay here, on what amounts to a mission of mercy, there is no end to the amount of good he can achieve, in the name of the Federation and of Starfleet, its so-called 'humanitarian armada'. And his presence would give us a contact, an outpost here. Like we have in the Delta Quadrant, on New Talax. An early bridgehead for future expansion of the Federation. Even the bureaucracy might like it eventually, once they get used to the idea."

Fincher shot him a surprised and grateful look, while the Doctor opened his mouth in protest – only to close it again after a sharp warning glance from Tom, delivered in full First Officer mode.

Riker closed his eyes for a moment. This was a decision for life, he knew. Easier than sending a man to his death, perhaps, but just as momentous in its consequences. But he, too, had heard the pain in Fincher's words, and more than that, the man's genuine desire to become the gift of hope the K'rikians needed and would cherish above all things.

The Captain turned to the young doctor. "I'm not saying no. But before I say yes, I want you to talk to Counselor Troi. I want to be sure that you know and understand what you are in for, that you are mentally equipped and ready for it. I need to be confident that you are fully prepared to live with this decision." He took a deep breath and continued.

"We'll be arriving in the K'rikian cluster sometime tomorrow. If you and Deanna have confirmed your decision by then, we will contact the Commonwealth and arrange for your transfer to whichever of their worlds they consider in most immediate need, together with two replicators. The Doctor will program them and assist you in putting together the necessary medical supplies."

He turned to Tom. "Commander Paris will assign a couple of supplies specialists to put together whatever other materials and equipment you might need for a long-term mission and your own … personal purposes." Tom nodded, and mentally started to make a list. Perhaps he could access the data banks from Voyager, see what they had left Chakotay and the Captain with on 'New Earth' … His portable holo programmer, which he didn't need onboard ship, might be nice for Fincher to have …

Riker looked thoughtfully at the physician, who had remained strangely silent as his superiors discussed his fate, but was starting to look increasingly confident and energized. He added, "I admire your determination, but I must confess to having my doubts. It will get lonely out here, and we cannot promise regular contact with Starfleet. So think about this very, very carefully. You have twenty-four hours." After patting the young man on the shoulder in a rare gesture of familiarity and appreciation, the Captain turned on his heel and left sickbay.

Tom lingered for a moment. His interactions with Fincher to date had been limited to professional disagreement, and he had made little bones about his disdain for the man's qualifications and competence in private discussions with B'Elanna and Harry. But having himself in the past frequently been the victim of 'first impressions', Tom had made it a habit to be ready to re-evaluate those he had judged in the light of new information. Fincher's pained acknowledgment of his professional shortcomings elevated the man considerably in Tom's esteem, possibly even more so than his actual offer to stay behind in the Trifid.

After confirming that the EMH was still focused on closing up his unconscious patient's chest, Tom motioned Fincher to join him in the Doc's office. He waved off the young man's attempt to open his mouth.

"Don't thank me for the support, Jeremy. Before long, you may curse me for it. But there's something I wanted you to know. Not so very long ago, I was exactly where you are now. Low self-esteem and self-doubt, dressed up in arrogance, looking for a way to turn things around for myself." He smiled reassuringly at Fincher, who was clearly non-plussed at what to all intents and purposes sounded like a major put-down.

"No, Jeremy, hear me out. This is no time to be diplomatic; we need to understand one another here. What I want you to know is this: For me, the golden chalice of redemption turned out to be just a flight, a footnote in history. It wasn't the end of my problems, and it sure as hell was no holy grail, but it was a beginning. By contrast, you will be saving real lives, making a future for thousands of children, and for a while that will be enough. In many ways, it _should_ be enough.

"But the way to redemption, especially in your own eyes, won't ever be perfect, and it'll never seem finished. There is no miracle cure. I'm not there yet myself, and some days I think I'm farther than ever away from getting to where I think I need to be. There will be days, trust me, when you'll _still_ feel like a fraud, like you're going to be found out and sent back to square one, and you will question your sanity and your decision. So let me tell you this from experience – the _road itself_ will be worth it, and it's up to you to set the milestones along the way and measure yourself by those. Hang on to that thought, and you'll be fine."

He turned, then remembered something. "Oh, and good luck with Counselor Troi. Tell her I said the lizard says hello." And with that enigmatic last remark, Tom clapped Fincher on the back, nodded a farewell at the Doctor who stared after him with a bemused expression, and followed his Captain out the door.

As he walked down the corridor, Tom's memory was still ringing with the discussions he'd had with Captain Janeway, before the Warp 10 flight. The inspiration, the seduction of hearing her say that future historians would mention, in the same breath, the names of 'Orville Wright, Neil Armstrong, Zephram Cochrane – and Tom Paris'.

He chuckled ruefully, remembering the rather unfortunate aftermath of that particular attempt at immortality. A miracle cure it sure wasn't. But it _had_ been a beginning for him, that much was true – if only the start of the realization that it was his own opinion of himself he needed to improve before he could rise in anyone else's, and before he could – and would - become what he once had thought he could never be.

Nonetheless, if Fincher insisted on going on this one-way mission, he could probably use some lasting inspiration of his own, not just some well-meant words from a guy who once counseled himself out of a bar in Marseilles and into hell in a jail in New Zealand. Tom made a quick detour to the ship's store. After a bit of research, he found the reference to he was looking for: Three old-fashioned books. He smiled and authorized a debit to his replicator account.

Much later, when Jeremy Fincher would open the boxes with the supplies packed by his former colleagues from the Enterprise, he would find, near the top of a box labeled "personal effects", the biographies of two 20th century physicians: Albert Schweitzer and Norman Bethune, and the history of an organization called Médecins sans Frontières. Inside one of them was a small note, signed by Tom Paris, in which he wondered whether someone, somewhere, one day would add to those names that of Jeremy Fincher.

.....

 

" _Commander Paris? I presume you have a statement as well?"_

_"Yes, I do. And I will be as brief as Captain Riker, but probably not as eloquent. What I have to say is quite simple, really._

_My former Captain once said to me, after she had demoted me and sentenced me to a month in solitary for trying to save a planet that now no longer exists, that I had to 'learn how to honour the responsibilities of command'. That I needed to learn how to fit into the Starfleet command structure, when to follow orders. And she was right. She usually was._

_"But then we came across the Equinox and the holocaust that Captain Ransom was carrying out onboard that ship, and we were all reminded that following orders isn't always the right thing to do. That when you're asked to obey an order that you know to be unlawful, you have a duty to refuse. The members of the Equinox crew learned this the hard way. Having failed to listen to their conscience when they could, none of them were allowed to remain in Starfleet when we returned to the Alpha Quadrant._

"' _I was following orders' is not a valid defense, when you know that the order is wrong. It hasn't been for hundreds of years._

_"And so I must ask this Court, if obeying an order that leads to the death of a number of aliens is wrong, how can refusing to obey one that would lead to the death of millions, possibly an entire species or two,also be wrong? Maybe I'm being simplistic, and I'm certainly not a lawyer, but to me that just doesn't make any sense._

_"I've made a few mistakes early in my life as a Starfleet Officer. But through those mistakes, and in the course of events over the last few years, I've come to believe that the responsibilities of command, more than anything, include acting on your conscience. When following the letter of a Starfleet Directive means massive loss of life, the destruction of a planet, or the death of a species, I believe that as a commanding officer I have the responsibility to disobey that Directive, and a responsibility to protect those who do not have the means to protect themselves._

_"And if that means relinquishing any claim I have to this uniform, which I have very proudly worn until today, then I am willing to pay that price. Because if Starfleet expects me to blindly follow rules that cause the deaths of millions, rather than follow the moral compass that points me towards saving their lives, if that is who and what Starfleet wants me to be, then I cannot remain in Starfleet any longer._

" _Compared to what was gained, and compared to what others have sacrificed to stop the dying in the Trifid, the price I would be paying by surrendering this uniform would really be nothing all."_


	12. Pandora's Box

_The prosecution, as expected, easily anticipated the accused's legal arguments. But rather than set out a detailed submission of her own, counsel wrapped up quickly and smugly, expecting the bulk of her case to be made in Judge McPhee's instructions to the jury._

 _The judge had been rather easy to read, after all._

 _Stan McFaddyen's submission by contrast pulled out all the legal stops, including a few the prosecution had missed or ignored: The Prime Directive had no application because the K'rikians had initiated contact; the Lumen's warp capability was a red herring because of their inherent nature; and the assistance rendered had come at the request of one party to the conflict and with the consent of the other._

 _Technology was not handed over and remained under Starfleet control. Tom twitched a little at that one, 'control' being a relative term, but he had allowed Fincher to argue this himself, and knew that his lawyer was simply covering all the bases._

 _That was, after all, what he was paid to do._

 _The centrepiece was, of course, the 'morality' argument – that a law so obviously wrong should not be allowed to stand. McFaddyen referred the jury to his clients' statements on these matters, which, as he noted, made the case rather more eloquently that he could as a mere lawyer. Images from the various away teams' transmissions punctuated the submission, based on the old lawyer's adage that one should never underestimate the power of the holographic image._

 _Then McFaddyen went after Judge McPhee, with guns blazing. Listed all the instances of the investigating judge's evident bias during the hearing, the attacks on his clients' integrity and professionalism, the assumptions, the speculation on evidence that negated objective assessment. The media lapped it up. Clearly, McFaddyen was expecting to lose, and setting up avenues for appeal._

 _And of course, the tactic backfired spectacularly._

 _In the wake of McFaddyen's verbal assault, Judge McPhee's instructions to the jury were delivered with considerable venom. He took judicial notice of the fact that neither the Lumen nor the K'rikians were members of the Federation. The issue of warp capability, he stated, was at play even if only one of the species was beneath that state of development. Hence, the jury were instructed to ignore Mr. McFaddyen's arguments about the Lumen._

 _He further instructed that consent was not an issue in matters relating to the Prime Directive, and must be disregarded. How many times after all had species asked, no pleaded, to the Federation for assistance and intervention, and been denied? Was Lieutenant McFaddyen so ignorant, that he was not aware of the long list of existing precedents and shining examples of forbearance in this regard?_

 _Two of the commissioners shifted uncomfortably in their seats._

 _As for the final argument put forward by the defense, McPhee counseled the jury to ignore it entirely. If an exception to the Prime Directive were to be made on the basis of egregious circumstances, as suggested by counsel for the accused, this would lead to the inevitable conclusion that it would be left to individual commanding officers to interpret the law as they saw fit. Individuals like Commander Paris, who clearly lacked the fundamental understanding of how Starfleet officers needed to conduct themselves. McPhee doubted very much that mere Starfleet officers could be entrusted with that kind of responsibility, and the jury was advised to take this into account._

 _The law had to be clear and unambiguous._

 _It was not lost on the audience and the journalists in attendance that the members of the Military Commission, before retiring for their deliberations, asked the judge to confirm that while he could direct a verdict of acquittal to countermand a finding of guilt on their part, he would not be able to impose a conviction should they decide to acquit._

 _They returned within the hour._

.....

 

Three days after the verdict, Admiral Kathryn Janeway came to see her former helmsman and chief engineer. It was a sunny spring day, still a little cool, and a soft breeze was blowing across the pine-scented estate that generations of the Paris family had used as a haven, to escape from battles both real and imagined.

The images of Tom and Will shaking hands and clapping each other on the back were still plastered across news screens across the sector, as were those of Judge McPhee's sputtering indignation at the unanimous acquittal, and of Owen Paris' tear-stained face.

The jury had found as a matter of fact, not law – as was their prerogative, regardless of the Judge's directions – that the Lumen were a warp capable species and the K'rikians had initiated contact with the Federation on their own accord. Consent of both species to the intervention, too, was a matter of fact, not law, and hence could be determinative of the outcome in the case. In conclusion, the Prime Directive did not apply.

The jury went further, but because the additional pronouncements went beyond their mandate, their statement that charges should never have been laid in the first place made for good headlines but was otherwise without consequence. Nor would any obligation to Starfleet arise out of their recommendation that it was time for the Prime Directive to be revisited.

Public debate, however, was raging. Politicians' aides were working overtime to determine on which side their principals should most profitably take their principled stand. Starfleet was talking about nothing else.

It was no wonder Tom had taken his family here, into the wooded hills.

Kathryn also knew that this would not be an easy conversation; holding it on Tom Paris' home turf would make it that much harder.

She saw them long before they became aware of her presence, and she paused in order to take in the picture before her. They were sitting on a wooden bench, watching their daughter and a little boy – probably a cousin - play in the sunshine.

They were in civilian clothing, Tom wearing a scuffed, well-worn leather jacket against the chilly morning air; it reminded her forcefully and perhaps not inappropriately of his Captain Proton outfit, except for an apparent phaser burn in the left pocket that she did not recall. Tom's arm was loosely draped around B'Elanna, occasionally and absently combing his fingers through her hair or stroking the soft scarf covering her shoulders against the slightly chilly breeze. B'Elanna's head was leaning against his shoulder. Kathryn Janeway was struck by the unconsciously protective quality of her former helmsman's position, as if he were shielding his wife's back against unknown enemies.

It had taken her a while to see this quintessential part of Tom Paris, even though it had surfaced almost immediately upon their journey together, when he insisted on helping her find Harry on the Ocampan homeworld. Only later had she learned that he had rescued the young ensign once already by then, from the clutches of a Ferengi in a bar on DS9. Then came his near-fatal rescue of Chakotay in the caverns; a few weeks on, he dove in front of a little boy to take the bullet that would have killed the child.

At first she had thought these were the actions of a man bent on self-destruction, whose life held so little value to himself that he would risk it without a thought, perhaps looking for a way to escape his demons in a blaze of glory. Later, when she sent Tom on what was essentially a suicide mission to infiltrate the Kazon and expose a traitor, she believed that what she was taking such calculated advantage of was his desire to perfect the redemption that she knew he sought so desperately.

She now knew how wrong she had been in all those instances, in all her perceptions. For Tom Paris, as she now knew, putting himself between danger and those he loved or those who needed his help was an instinct as natural as breathing. He would probably stare at her blankly if she suggested it; at best, he might concede to having some sort of vaguely defined personal code of honour that called on him to act in situations where he felt he could make a difference.

She knew better. She had seen it, known it to happen, again and again. In the Vidiian caves. Hanon IV. Monea. And now, in the Trifid Nebula. Protecting others was a responsibility Tom shouldered instinctively and without question; if he considered any consequences at all, it was only those of failure to act.

And yet, for the longest time, Starfleet – herself included, Kathryn thought ruefully - had been utterly reluctant to accept who and what Tom Paris was, to welcome what he was only too willing to give. The system had reacted with suspicion, demotions, jail time even, citing rules that could never contain him when the need to protect others became the call that he would follow above all others.

And even though he had been repeatedly condemned, including for his flying for the Maquis, no one could ever have honestly said that he had been wrong.

She hoped that he could see the acquittal as a victory, but she also feared that it might have come, in the end, at too great a cost.

Tom and B'Elanna were talking in quiet voices now, smiling occasionally at the children's rambunctious antics. The structure Miral and her cousin Jamie were using as the basis for an elaborate game of chase was built in the shape of an improbably and gaudily coloured medieval castle, which stood in frivolous contrast to the dignified, stone-grey grace of the Paris mansion and its landscaped gardens.

Kathryn recognized the fortress as a close relative of one Tom had built for Naomi Wildman on Voyager's holodeck: between the turrets and ramparts where princesses could rescue princes in distress or slay imaginary dragons, there were innumerable options for climbing, sliding, swinging, dangling, digging, or just hanging out. She rather suspected that the castle's appearance on the beautiful but somewhat staid estate – at the edge of the woods where shade would be found during long, hot summer days – was the realization of an old childhood dream. Kathryn also knew from the Admiral, with whom she had exchanged a few words on arrival before she headed outside to find his son, that it had instantly elevated Tom to God-like status in the eyes of his numerous nephews.

She took some comfort in the belief that the play castle's presence meant that the irrepressible lightness of being, the offbeat humour she had always treasured in her former helmsman, had not been completely crushed by the events of the last few weeks. The interrogations, the accusations, the court martial, the screaming headlines.

Kathryn took a deep breath, readying herself to do what she had come here to do, and approached the bench. Tom and B'Elanna looked up when they heard their former Captain's footfall on the dew-damp grass; both smiled a surprised welcome, albeit one that was almost immediately replaced by caution and – this hurt more than Kathryn had expected it would - suspicion. She decided to make the first move.

"Hiding from the media?" she asked, in the gravely voice they both knew so well and had missed greatly during the last year. Tom nodded as they rose to greet her, an unaccustomed weariness clouding the usual sparkle of the sapphire eyes she remembered so very well.

"That and from the sheriff. You never know when Starfleet might want to charge me with something else – having a conscience, trying to prevent war crimes, ecocide or the death of a species or two. Filing my fingernails to too sharp a point."

Kathryn winced at the bitterness in his voice, and he softened a little.

"I'm sorry." His apology was sincere, albeit delivered with a slightly twisted smile. "I know my current predicament has nothing to do with you. It's good to see you, Cap … Admiral."

Janeway smiled. "Captain will do," she said, adding wistfully, "I do miss hearing it, some days. And I missed you two. A lot. I'm sorry I couldn't be at the trial. I was on one of those diplomatic missions you'd have loved. But I watched every minute that I could on the newsvids."

Deciding that a sunlit meadow adorned with a garish fantasy castle was not the place to stand on formalities, she moved to hug first B'Elanna, then Tom. Tom returned the embrace, but quickly withdrew his arms from her shoulders and took a step back.

"Are you sure you want to be seen with me?" he asked lightly, but with unmistakable tension in his voice. "Given my track record, I'm not exactly fit company for an admiral."

He briefly reconsidered his words before adding, in the interest of fairness, "With the possible exception of my father, who seems to have resigned himself to my talent for attracting controversy. Or else he's just decided that he has to put up with me, if he wants to continue spoiling Miral. But you … you probably shouldn't be here. If you don't mind my saying so … Captain."

She felt the distance he was trying to put between them in more than the physical step back that he had taken. And she knew, with a certainty that almost made tears well up in her eyes, that it was for her that he was creating this space – not for himself. To protect her, in case someone saw them together and took exception.

Kathryn Janeway cast a thoughtful glance at her erstwhile 'reclamation project' – projects, really, since B'Elanna had been just as much in need of a psychological overhaul as Tom had been when she first met them, and just as successful in quelling her demons. Here they both were, clearly grateful and pleased that she had come, but wary – so wary now.

Despite Tom's studiedly casual and distant demeanour, there was a challenging gleam in his eyes, a mixture of pride and defiance. She had seen that look before – all through the vid transmissions of the Trifid trial; in her ready room on Voyager, the day she had taken that pip from his collar and sentenced him to thirty days of solitary confinement. She had seen it in Auckland after their return from the Delta Quadrant, when politically motivated machinations had sought to return him to prison. And she imagined that he had worn it, too, the day he was thrown out of Starfleet, as a reward for coming forward with the truth about the accident at Caldik Prime and about the mistake he had made trying to avoid responsibility for it.

The look of someone who, although utterly convinced that he had done the right thing, had lost all confidence in the ability of others to understand what drove him. The look of a man whose own code of honour would not permit him to take the easy route – never the easy route, but always the route of his conscience – and expected to be punished for it.

And it was clear from the way B'Elanna stood beside her mate that they were together in this, as they were in all things. She had made her own choices, in her own time – and had not infrequently clashed with Kathryn in the result. Her stance now was a signal that she would accept the challenge, should one be made.

They were clearly expecting her to ask what would be next for them. Whether they would rejoin the Enterprise, after her decontamination from radiation exposure at McKinley station. Or whether they were ready to give up on Starfleet, like Chakotay had, and find their own way.

Kathryn shivered a little. This was the third time Thomas Eugene Paris had acted against the acquired wisdom of Starfleet and been met with the full force of its wrath. He had won this time, but how often was enough? When would he decide to throw down his bat'leth and just walk away?

Would she be able to convince him that the windmills he had been tilting against all his life were starting to turn to his tune, slowly but surely?

"I'm afraid I have to disagree with you, Tom. Not only is it proper for me to be here, in fact, I was expressly asked to come and talk with you."

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Ah, I see. Did they send you to drop the axe? How very fitting. Well, this time you're welcome to take all my pips, Captain. I'm done."

His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "There's no place for me in Starfleet. I think we know that now. And I'm sorry if that means I've been a disappointment to you." B'Elanna stepped closer to him and laid her hand on his arm, gripping it, leaning in.

Somewhere in the background, incongruously, the children's giggles dissolved into shrieks of laughter.

Kathryn heard the pain behind Tom's words, despite the defiant manner in which they had been spoken. The regret that she thought she detected in them gave her hope. If he felt that, it may not be too late.

"You underestimate us, Tom," she said softly. "You underestimate the new, post-Dominion War Starfleet. Your reputation is quite secure. In fact, you have won the respect of a great many people these last few weeks. Including at the highest levels."

B'Elanna snorted angrily. Her eyes flashed at Janeway. "Right. Sure. If that's the case, why then did the _new, improved, post-Dominion-War Starfleet_ appoint the dodgiest old codger this side of the Eugenics War to preside over Tom's case? The man was a bleeding menace. It was a miracle the jury essentially ignored every direction he gave them. If the case had gone according to that guy's vision, Tom and Will would be chopping rocks in a Cardassian concentration camp."

Kathryn raised an eyebrow. "Really." she said. "You two still haven't figured it out, have you? Then again, neither did Will and Deanna; Picard had to enlighten them, too." She placed her hands on her hips, seguing into classic Janeway lecture mode as if she had never left Voyager's bridge.

"'Windbag' McPhee was the most astute choice to preside over your case that Alynna Nacheyev could possibly have made. Every time that man opens his mouth, on behalf of anything, the opposing side gains a thousand converts. That includes members of a jury. I know your lawyer had it figured out, even if you hadn't. He allowed you to play the man like a violin, judging by the transcripts. McFaddyen's final submission was a stroke of genius, pushed every button the judge had. I'm surprised McPhee didn't come out of the court room with a nose ring in place."

She watched her comments sink in, saw the dawning understanding in Tom's eyes, his lips curl upward a little in appreciation. Obviously, McPhee hadn't been the only one who'd been played... He would have to have words with his lawyer about fulsome attorney-client communication.

But there was more important information in what he had just learned.

"Nacheyev?" he asked softly.

The Fleet Admiral's pale, cool fingers had touched his file far too often in recent years, and the mere thought sent shivers down his spine. What was her game this time? One thing he knew for absolutely certain, whether she had intended her intervention for his detriment or his benefit, it would not have been personal. Never personal.

B'Elanna frowned. "You mean Nacheyev hand-picked the judge so we would win? Isn't that against every principle that the Federation and their much-vaunted 'rule of law' are supposedly about? Not that I mind in this case, but …"

Tom shook his head, slowly, as Kathryn watched in silence. "No. I don't think so. If she had wanted to dictate the actual outcome, she would have had to stack the jury. And those weren't people who could be bought, at any price." He paused for a moment, thinking, coming to a conclusion.

"If what the Captain is saying is right," he smiled apologetically at her for even only hypothetically suggesting she might be wrong, "she probably picked McPhee to polarize the proceedings. To make sure that even the most superficial observer would 'get' what the issues were, and that whatever the outcome of the case was, it would be crystal clear. No grey zones."

He was clearly warming up to his analysis. "Come to think of it, Nacheyev probably didn't give a shit whether we won or lost. Starfleet just needed a nice, clean verdict on a tricky issue. Whether it was triumph or disaster for me and Will personally, hey, who cares – we were just the sideshow. Either outcome would allow Starfleet to pick up its toys and go home with clean hands, no messy ambiguities or questions at the end of the day. Isn't that right, Captain?"

Kathryn nodded her agreement in silence. Tom certainly was developing an appreciation of politics. It ran in his family and would serve him well down the line, as it had generations of Parises before him.

"The only question I have now," Tom said, very softly and with a dangerous glint in his eyes, "is _why_. Assuming it wasn't personal. She must have known that the case would start a public debate, especially as handled by McPhee. Regardless of the outcome. Was it the debate she wanted?"

Holding his eyes steadily with hers, Kathryn responded. Not smiling, but with a tone in her voice that left no doubt that she approved of the objective, regardless of her views on Nacheyev's methods to get there.

"Just before I left Headquarters, Alynna Nacheyev directed the JAG to draw up a Third General Exception to the Prime Directive. If I remember it right, it will say something along the lines of its application being 'suspended in situations where inaction would threaten the survival of a species, result in the destruction of a biosystem, or lead to mass casualties among a civilian population'. Under those circumstances, Tom, the responsibility to protect life will, from now on, override the principle of non-interference, and if Starfleet has the capacity to intervene successfully and without causing additional casualties, it may."

She paused for a moment, to let her words sink in.

"Rumour has it that a draft for this has been in the admiralty's drawer for years, waiting for the right occasion for someone to be able to pull it out and sell it to the public. There have been too many cases where Starfleet officers, good people, have found themselves in a position to have to either act against their conscience, or act against the law. You and I know that perhaps better than anyone, and yes, before you ask - my thinking on the issue has evolved considerably since … Monea, thanks to you, Tom. The Trifid case was the perfect testing ground for Starfleet to see whether we could survive a change to one of its founding principles."

She shook her head, remembering the details of the case she had been watching from afar. "Such a small intervention, with such a huge permanent impact on two beautiful, peaceful peoples. Had you lost, there would have been public outrage. Either way, the case clearly showed the need for some kind of change. And the public response to the verdict has proved that the change could be sold."

Tom laughed, a little cynically. "Interesting to learn that all this ... crap Will and I just got put through all fitted nicely into some little plot of Nacheyev's. _So_ glad to be of service."

Kathryn put her hand on his arm, digging her nails into the leather of his jacket just a little to make her point. "No, Tom. You shouldn't look at it like that. Not just like that. Your actions in that nebula were a catalyst, to allow Starfleet to do what they had been hoping to do for some time, but could not. Three hundred years of tradition, three hundred years of a policy of non-interference are not so easily shed overnight, especially with the war we so recently finished. There had to be a … trigger.

"And in the process of serving as that catalyst, you saved several million lives in the Trifid, and possibly many more elsewhere in the future. That isn't so bad, is it?"

The Admiral's voice turned from gravel to velvet, took on a tinge of pride. "And no matter what you may think of the immediate means Starfleet command chose to get there, I already heard people at Headquarters refer to the new exception as 'the Paris principle'."

Tom shook his head in disbelief. "So I guess I'm supposed to be pleased to have been used in such a _good_ cause? Way I see it, being used is being used. This may come as a surprise, but a kangaroo trial actually is spectacularly little fun when you're the 'roo. Even if you win."

"You're right, Tom, and if I were in your shoes I'd probably see it exactly the same way. I'd also probably see more than a little hypocrisy in my showing up here to congratulate you on your acquittal, after what I did to you over Monea. All I can say in respect of that is, again, that you changed my thinking. And what matters in the end is that after numerous attempts and Lord knows how many arguments with your father, with myself and with anyone else, you've actually succeeded in rewriting the Prime Directive. In fact, _Commander_ , you may just have changed the face of Starfleet."

Janeway knew her former helmsman well enough to understand that he did not thrive on grandiose statements like this, however true.

And so she smiled at him, a little warily now, and added, "Not to mention that you changed the face of the Trifid, to the point where we'll probably have to rename it in a few years, but we won't get into that. Now – do you want to tell your father all that, or should I?"

Tom relaxed a fraction and smiled at Kathryn a little; the messenger might yet be left alive. She let out a silent breath.

"I suppose I'll tell him. He's earned the right to hear it from me, after all those shouting matches, not to mention having to sit through the trial. It was really hard on him, for a great number of reasons." B'Elanna gave her mate's arm a squeeze and he momentarily buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, steadying himself.

"But if you came to convince me to stay in Starfleet …"

He let the sentence trail off. Kathryn swallowed. This was harder than she had expected. No, that wasn't quite true. This was proving to be every bit as difficult as she had expected.

Still trying to slow down the roller coaster of his feelings, Tom turned towards the children, whose high-pitched giggles chimed in the increasingly mild morning air. Miral slid down the play structure, her cousin initially in hot pursuit, but suddenly giving up and heading for the sand box instead. The little girl raced across the meadow towards her parents, flinging herself into B'Elanna's arms.

"Mommy, Mommy, Jamie can't catch me!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "I'm faster than the wind!" " Are not," came a slightly morose voice from behind the play castle. "I _let_ you win!"

"Did not!" came the outraged response. "Did _not!"_

"Shh, sweetheart. Don't gloat. Jamie is just a bit jealous how fast you can run and climb. You felt the same way when he beat you at rings, didn't you?" B'Elanna turned to Kathryn, grateful for the distraction, the temporary lightening of the moment offered by the breathless little girl.

"Miral, you remember your god-aunt Kathryn, don't you? You haven't seen her for a while, since you were very little. She lives in San Francisco now, not in space like we do."

Miral turned in B'Elanna's arms and inspected Kathryn carefully and deliberately, much to the latter's delight. "I 'member," she pronounced with all the solemnity a two-and-a-half-year-old was capable of. "Your picture is in our house."

B'Elanna explained hastily, with a smile, "She means the 'family portrait' the Doc took at the Ancestors' Eve celebration on Voyager. We keep it on the TV in our living room on the Enterprise."

Miral didn't particularly care for the explanation, but her curiosity was tweaked. "Why are you here, Aunt Kaff-ryn?"

Janeway chuckled. "Straight to the point, isn't she? Just like her Mom!" Then she turned to her goddaughter, and tenderly stroked her dark curls even as she lifted her eyes to look straight at Tom.

"I came to bring your Daddy a present. If he wants it, that is."

There, it was out. She reached into her pocket and took out a quite ordinary, small square box. B'Elanna's eyes went wide at the familiar sight.

Tom's breath came out in a hiss, but he made no move to reach for the box. His immediate instinct screamed at him to grab it and throw it far, far into the woods that lined the Paris estate, but the person holding it was Kathryn Janeway - the woman who had given him his life back once before, and had stopped him or nudged him along the way a dozen times more.

But he also knew, as clearly as he knew anything, that if he took it and accepted what was inside he would be committed to something that mere minutes ago he had been fully prepared to throw away - after spending most of his adult life getting to the point where he could admit to wanting it.

Tom looked at B'Elanna, and once again Kathryn marveled at the apparent ability of the couple to exchange whole conversations in just one look. Finally, B'Elanna nodded her reassurance, but for which decision, Kathryn couldn't tell. She settled on the assumption that B'Elanna was simply encouraging Tom to make his choice, without judgment of any kind, and that she would give her support to whatever he decided. After all, they had gone to the end of the world and back together already, and they would go further still.

Finally, after what seemed to Kathryn like an eternity, Tom took the box from her hand. His long fingers, shaking slightly, popped the lid on the box as if expecting all the demons of hell to spring forth from inside.

B'Elanna let out a long, slow breath.

It was what it was.

"What is it Daddy? What is it?" asked Miral excitedly, squirming in her mother's arms to get a better view. Tom wordlessly held up the open box for her inspection.

"Oh," she said, disappointment and a little reproach for Kathryn's lack of imagination evident in her voice. "It's a pip. But Daddy already has three!"

"Yes, sweetheart, he does," Kathryn said softly. "And now he has four. If he wants them, that is. And I sure hope you do, _Captain Paris._ Starfleet command does, too. You are what they _need_ , whether they _want_ you or not. And people like Nacheyev, Picard, Bullock – they are beginning to recognize that. _"_

"And this is supposed to make me want to come back for more?" Tom asked evenly, but with a glint in his eyes that made Kathryn's heart sink. "What are they going to do the next time someone decides to throw me a court martial, or tries to toss me in jail just to score a few votes? Offer to make me an admiral? There's only so many times I'm prepared to bend over and spread my legs for a career in Starfleet, and I think I may just have reached my limit."

Kathryn did not bother to respond to the crude comment, too obviously calculated to provoke her into letting go, making the decision for him by taking the box back, snapping it shut.

Instead, she held his gaze, grey-blue eyes locking with sapphire ones. She, too, could pass silent messages to her former helmsman.

He got it alright. It took a few minutes of reciprocal glaring before he shrugged in something that might, in anyone other than Tom Paris, be construed as resignation.

"Fine. I suppose you're trying to tell me to stop pouting and start acting like an adult. To forget about being put through the wringer for the sake of politics, take that goddamn post-traumatic chip off my shoulder, and deal with this for what it's worth."

Kathryn's lips twitched. Thomas Eugene Paris never did mince words unnecessarily, even when it came to judging his own actions and behaviour. Especially not then.

But he wasn't done yet. "I assume that's why Nacheyev sent _you_ out here - because she knew you were the only person who stood even the remotest chance that I would listen to them, whom I might possibly, conceivably, not throw … _this_ back at. Smart woman, our Ice Queen. She really _has_ read my file."

Kathryn stayed in silence, waiting for him to puzzle out the rest, as B'Elanna watched their interplay with keen eyes. She obviously – and uncharacteristically – had decided to stay out of this discussion, not claiming her influence on Tom.

For her part, Kathryn was very well aware that Tom Paris knew her almost as well as he knew his wife; it would not take him long to figure things out, understand why she had to come herself to force this choice on him.

He did not disappoint.

"But you – _you_ wouldn't allow yourself to be played like that anymore than I would, would you? You sure as hell didn't come out here just to hand me this pip at the behest and bidding of Fleet Admiral Alynna Nacheyev. There's … there's something else, isn't there? Something you thought I'd actually want, or else you wouldn't be here."

"You're right, Tom," she said, softly, her voice but a whisper.

"There _is_ something else, but I'm afraid it does come with that pip. Something I wouldn't want them to give to anyone else but you. Or that I would want anyone else to give away but me."

And as she saw the understanding dawning in Tom's face - and quite possibly his acceptance, but it was too early to tell - Kathryn Janeway's eyes filled with tears, and she broke into a smile brighter than a thousand suns.

"Voyager."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you found Tom's progress through the ranks a bit quick – only a little over a year as First Officer, you say? - recall that fast-tracking was predicted with enrolment at the James T. Kirk Centre of Advanced Tactical and Strategic Command (see my story "Choices").
> 
> A couple of notes drawn from real life. The 'responsibility to protect' is an emerging principle of international law – still contested - that authorizes intervention by the international community when a state is unable or unwilling to protect its civilian population from war crimes, crimes against humanity, genocide or ethnic cleansing.
> 
> The 'Paris principles' do exist. They deal with the treatment of children affected by armed conflict, specifically child soldiers. Not quite relevant to this story, but how could I resist?
> 
> In 2010 alone landmines and other explosive remnants of war killed approximately 4,000 civilians, mostly farmers tilling their fields or herders tending their flocks. In most countries children make up over half the victims; they do like to play with shiny things.


End file.
